


what stays (and what fades away)

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Concerned Dean, Cursed Castiel (Supernatural), Curses, Dean/Cas Pinefest (Supernatural), Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020 (Supernatural), Dreams, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Cas Novak’s life is perfect. He has a job that he loves and friends who support him. Most importantly, he has his husband, Dean Winchester, and his two adopted children, Claire and Jack. With them, nothing could ever go wrong.That is, until he starts having flashes of a life that isn’t his and meets someone who shares his husband’s face but not his personality, someone who insists that he’s someone, something, different altogether. Cas’ life shatters when he’s dragged into a world that he doesn’t belong to and doesn’t understand.Dean Winchester’s life was already shattered when he lost Castiel.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 242
Kudos: 712
Collections: Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020, Long Works to Read, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, my Pinefest. My little labor of love. I've had this idea in my head for close on a year and a half and I can only hope that I've done it as much justice as the original idea deserved. 
> 
> HUGE HUGE THANKS go to my amazing artist [skeletonsinzeeclost](https://skeletonsinzeeclost.tumblr.com/), who is responsible for every single piece of magnificent art you see. PLEASE go give her some love and a follow, she makes amazing creations and is just a downright great person. 
> 
> AWESOME HUGE THANKS also to my beta [queenvee08](https://queenvee08.tumblr.com/), who took my vague statement of _I dunno, something's wrong with it_ and went above and beyond what I ever dreamed to help. Any mistakes you find are 100% mine. 
> 
> Sit back and enjoy! I hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it. Much love.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_prologue_ **

A leaf flutters to the ground.

Twirling, caught on the breeze, it floats, before landing next to a man. The man rakes the leaves, repetitive motions soothing as he bends and drags the rake over the ground, gathering the leaves closer to him.

_ We should talk, you and I. _ __

A leaf flutters to the ground.

Twirling, caught on the breeze, it floats, before landing next to a man. The man rakes the leaves, repetitive motions soothing as he bends and drags the rake over the ground, gathering the leaves closer to him.

_ We should talk, you and I. _ __

A leaf flutters to the ground.

Twirling, caught on the breeze, it floats, before landing next to a man. The man rakes the leaves, repetitive motions soothing as he bends and drags the rake over the ground, gathering the leaves closer to him.

_ We should talk, you and I. _ __

A leaf flutters to the ground.

Twirling, caught on the breeze—

_ \--can you hear me? We’re going to get you out, but you have to come with us, where are you, please, I need to find you, please come home, can you hear me? Where are you?— _ __

\--it floats, before landing next to a man. The man rakes the leaves, repetitive motions soothing as he bends and drags the rake over the ground, gathering the leaves closer to him.

_ We should talk, you and I. _

A leaf flutters to the ground.

~*~*~*~*~*

Cas wakes up to the sound of a trilling alarm, in a room not yet lit by the dawn. He glares at his phone and fumbles for the snooze button. His thumb punches at the dull orange button with extreme prejudice before he tosses the phone to the side. He slumps back into the mattress, sighing in discontent. He still has a few moments before he absolutely has to get out of bed.

In the meantime, he stretches, luxuriating in the sensation of smooth sheets against his body. He’ll take the confession to his grave, but the 1000 thread count sheets were definitely worth the investment. Yes, they paid an exorbitant price for their linens, but _god,_ as they slide over his bare skin, he has to admit that he doesn’t regret the decision.

Cas stretches, his muscles releasing their tension. As he does, his fingers brush against a warm, bare shoulder. A lazy, sleepy smile spreads across Cas’ face, the same one that appears every morning when he wakes up and realizes that this is his life. It still feels slightly unreal to him, like if he pokes around the edges too much, he’ll find the seams and the whole thing will unravel.

“You need to shut your alarm off.” Dean’s voice is low and sleep-raspy, still half-asleep from the sound of it. “Don’t do that crap where you snooze it thirty times before you get up.”

“Grouchy,” Cas replies, nudging at Dean’s limp arm until it flops in such a way that he can crawl underneath it. With the weight of Dean’s arm heavy on his shoulders and the warmth of the blankets surrounding him, Cas lets his eyes fall shut, lulled to sleep by the soothing, rhythmic beat of Dean’s heart in his ear.

It’s moments like these that Cas loves the most, when the world seems to stop rotating, just for a second, so that he can fully appreciate them. He’s aware, in the vague way that doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, that hardly anyone is this happy with their life. Hannah and Balthazar at the hospital seem  _ content _ , but they don’t wake deliriously happy. They don’t carry around the warm glow of Dean’s mid-afternoon text with them to bolster them through difficult times.

Cas’ alarm rings again. This time the jangle is more insistent, a finger in the back of the head as opposed to a gentle nudge. Cas muffles his groan against Dean’s skin and Dean’s fingers tighten on his shoulder. “Again with the snooze button,” Dean groans, but any harshness in the words is lost when he rolls over and presses a soft kiss to Cas’ forehead. “Come on, I don’t have to be at the shop until 9 today. If we get up right now, then I’ll have enough time to make you breakfast while you’re in the shower.”

“Or,” Castiel offers, wriggling against Dean’s body as an enticement, “we could stay in bed a little longer.”

Dean considers just for a moment, fingernails digging into Cas’ skin, before he rejects the thought. “Like we have time,” Dean answers, rolling out of the bed before Cas has a chance to try and change his mind. Cas shifts over into the pool of warmth left by his body, only to recoil when Dean lands a sharp swat to his rear.

“Shower,” Dean says, his tone aiming for stern but landing somewhere in the realm of ‘fondly exasperated’. “Otherwise you’ll be late and then you’ll be grouchy.”

Cas maintains a low, unintelligible grumble as he extracts himself from the bed. It only stops when he comes face to face with Dean, who cups his stubble-rough jaw in one gentle, capable hand. “Morning sunshine,” Dean says, strong and sweet like Cas’ favorite coffee. He kisses Cas then, a good morning kiss, close-lipped and firm, a reassurance.

A reminder of why Cas is so, so, so lucky.

\---

Dean makes them eggs and bagels for breakfast while Cas has his first cup of coffee of the day. He’ll take another cup in the car on the way to work and break into his third by 10 am. Dozens of health professionals have warned him that his consumption isn’t wise, but Cas has picked his vices. Caffeine will be the hill that he dies upon.

“Sam wanted to know if we’d do dinner with him and Eileen this evening,” Dean says, lingering in the doorway as Cas toes on his shoes and shrugs into his jacket. “Apparently they’ve got something that they want to tell us.”

Cas has a vague inclination of what the news might be, but doesn’t betray anything as he leans in close to Dean. “That’ll be fine,” he agrees, reaching around Dean to grab his car keys and ID from the bowl behind him. “My shift ends at 4:30, so tell them around 6 or 7?”

“Awesome,” Dean says absently, his eyes traveling up and down Cas’ form.

Cas scrubs at his jaw self-consciously—did he miss something this morning? Dean catches his movement and grins, the wide, sunny grin that sends his laugh lines splintering out from the corners of his eyes. “You’re fine, babe,” he says, crowding Cas against the door. “Just wondering how I got lucky enough to land me a sexy nurse.”

Cas hums as Dean noses at the soft skin just in front of his ear. “It was probably just the fact that you kept on buying drinks for me and inhibiting my judgement. By the time I came to, the damage was already done.”

Dean turns his head and nips at the shell of Cas’ ear. “You think you’re funny.” The statement reads almost like a warning, breathed soft and intimate into his skin. 

“Weren’t you the one saying earlier that we didn’t have time for this?” Cas asks. One hand rests in the center of Dean’s chest, though he doesn’t push him away. He curls his fingers into the soft material of Dean’s shirt and breathes in the scent of Dean: clean like fresh linen, but with the faint scent of leather and oil clinging to it.

“Hm, yeah, you’re right.” Cas hears the smile in Dean’s voice as he pulls away. “Rain check?”

“Absolutely.” They’ve been together too long for Dean to not pick up on the breathy tone in Cas’ voice, but, like a gentleman, he doesn’t mention it as he leans in close.

“Have a good day at work,” and with a simple press of lips on lips, Cas is out the door.

It’s a long, not unfulfilling day at the hospital. The regular sort of chaos reigns and Cas makes it through his rounds and patient checkups with little difficulty, other than Mr. Roman, who seems incapable of lasting longer than ten minutes without pressing the call button for one asinine reason after another. Whenever Cas comes to take care of his concern, Mr. Roman thanks him with a sneering  _ Thanks Nursie,  _ which serves the purpose of making Cas’ blood boil. He complains about it over lunch to Balthazar, who offers to ‘accidentally’ up Mr. Roman’s pain meds. In interest of the Hippocratic Oath, Cas declines, but does keep the offer in mind every time he walks past Mr. Roman’s door. 

As soon as he clocks out, Cas heads for the exit. Normally, he would linger for a bit, maybe catch a drink with Balthazar or Hannah, but he and Dean have plans. Not to mention that he’s intrigued by the vague statement of  _ Sam and Eileen have some news.  _ More importantly, at least to Cas--he wants to be able to do something nice for Dean. Doing nice things for Dean means being on time, being  _ present.  _ It’s the simplest and most important way he can start to show Dean his devotion. 

Cas makes it home before Dean, but only by a few minutes. He’s already in the shower when Dean comes into the bathroom. Cas smiles when he hears the easy open and shut of the bathroom door, followed by the various soft impacts of Dean’s clothes hitting the bathroom floor. When Dean slides the curtain aside and steps in, arousal is already humming through Cas’ body. The searing kiss that Dean plants on him only quickens the process.

“You’re blocking the water.” Cas accepts Dean’s kiss before bullying him to the back of the shower. “I was here first.”

“Really?” Dean asks, hair plastered flat on his head and dripping into his eyes. “That’s what you’re going to say to me? Now?”

Cas flicks his eyes up and down Dean’s frame--his fair skin, just starting to pinken from the heat of the shower, the water clinging to the tips of his hair and eyelashes, his perky nipples, the water sluicing down his chest to lollygag at the softness of his waist, before trailing down to his hips. The bow of his legs, and the dark thatch of hair at his groin, framing his half-hard cock. 

“Yeah,” Cas says, raising his eyebrows as he shrugs. “I think that’s about it.” 

“God, you’re a little shit,” Dean breathes, grinning as he wraps an arm around Cas’ shoulders. Cas smiles as Dean’s nose bumps into his cheek, and then they’re kissing through their laughter, and it’s awkward, clumsy, and everything that Cas could possibly want. 

Cas’ laugh hitches halfway through when Dean strokes soapy fingers down his stomach, teasing at the dark hairs surrounding his cock. Cas pulls back, leaning his head against the tiled wall, breathing deep as Dean circles his fingers around his rapidly hardening dick. 

“Didn’t you say that shower sex was too complicated?” Cas asks, biting his lip as Dean nips down his neck. 

“I said that it was complicated,” Dean hums, nuzzling at the bolt of his jaw. “Never that it was  _ too _ complicated.” 

“And that distinction is important?” Cas asks, trying in vain to maintain the semblance of indifference, even as he grabs at the shower rod. Dean’s hand picks up a rhythm, thumb flicking over the head of his cock, just how Cas likes. 

“Very.” Dean’s words are muffled by the fact that he’s busy licking over Cas’ chest, sucking bruising kisses in a ring around his collarbone. “Now shut up and look pretty, would you?” 

It’s easy to follow Dean’s instructions, especially when he’s so damn good at taking Cas apart. They’ve been doing this for so long, but it never gets boring. Every time Dean puts his hands on Cas, it’s a revelation, another layer peeled back, and Cas never wants it to end. 

There’s no words spoken between him and Dean in the close, humid space of the shower. There’s no need. Dean kisses him, hard and hot, a hint of teeth along Cas’ bottom lip as his free hand drops down to cup Cas’ balls. He gently squeezes and that’s all it takes for Cas to come over his fingers with a low groan that Dean promptly kisses silent. 

“Shit,” Dean pants, undone for all that he’s the cause of Cas’ orgasm. “Fuck, you’re hot, babe.” 

Cas grins, lazy and satisfied in the afterglow. He tilts his head into Dean’s, accepting the kisses that Dean plants along his jaw and cheeks. 

Dean’s stomach trembles as Cas draws small circles over it. His fingers ghost over the head of Dean’s cock, hard and straining against his stomach. “You want?” he asks, low and promising. 

“We’re going to be late,” Dean answers, and Cas grins, because that isn’t a no. 

“Sam will understand,” Cas answers, before shifting their positions so that Dean’s the one with his back against the wall. Dean’s eyes flutter shut in anticipation, while his mouth drops open in a slack, pleased smile. 

“Aw fuck, babe,” Dean murmurs. Cas drops to his knees and Dean widens his stance so that Cas can slot himself between Dean’s legs. 

The shower tiles are unforgiving on his knees, but Cas knows that this won’t take long. Dean is plenty worked up already, and by now, Cas is an expert at pushing every one of Dean’s buttons. 

He doesn’t waste time. In one smooth move, Cas takes Dean into his mouth, tracing around the leaking slit with his tongue before hollowing his cheeks and sucking. He sets a quick pace, bobbing up and down, hand stroking over the base where his mouth won’t reach. His other hand reaches behind Dean to skate over the tight furl of muscle nestled between his cheeks. Dean’s moans echo off the shower walls as he spreads his legs wider. 

Cas doubles down, working his tongue against Dean, just so he can hear the tiny little whimpers that Dean tries to stifle by biting at his lower lip. He presses his finger against Dean’s entrance just to hear Dean’s high keen. Dean can create a symphony of sounds and Cas loves each and every one. 

“Fuck Cas, that’s it,” Dean pants, smoothing his hands over Cas’ wet hair. “You’re so good at that, gonna make me come…” Cas swallows around Dean’s length, his blood heating at hearing Dean’s praise. 

“Ah, you’re so good for me babe, so fucking good,” Dean groans, thumbing over the bulge in Cas’ cheek. The fingers on his other hand twist through Cas’ hair, tightening as Dean groans, low and long. Cas feels Dean’s release before he tastes it, bursting warm and salty on his tongue. It’s an automatic response to swallow, working over Dean until Dean’s hands gently pull him away. 

“Shit, babe.” Dean strokes over Cas’ hair before he reaches down to help him up. Cas accepts his hand, wincing as his knees pop. “Why are you so good to me?” Dean asks. A dopey grin spreads over his face as he looks at Cas. 

Cas shrugs, ducking his head to hide his own smile. “Because you give really good head,” he says, ducking underneath the spray of the shower. The warmth of the water is nothing compared to the heat that boils through him every time he thinks of Dean, every time his eyes meet Dean’s, every time Dean’s fingers brush against his skin. 

Cas rubs shampoo through his hair, flicking some of the suds at Dean’s face. “Now come on. We’re going to be late.” 

In spite of their extracurricular activities, they make it to the restaurant by the time Sam and Eileen arrive. There’s the brief moment of introductions, where Dean hugs Eileen, where Sam hugs Cas, where Cas hugs Eileen, and where Dean and Sam take turns in trying to pound the other on the back hard enough to break bone.

Sam picked a steakhouse for dinner, a bit fancier than either Dean or Cas would pick on their own, but the Winchesters have an unwavering code that says that the person who does the inviting also does the paying. Plus, Sam’s job has been good to him lately, so Cas doesn’t feel that bad.

They make with the necessary small-talk—Mary’s birthday is coming up soon and there’s the need to buy her a gift, Dean’s planning on making a new hire at the shop to cover all the extra work he’s been getting, Sam just got handed a new case by his boss, Cas has a few funny stories about the hospital, and Eileen’s job at the police station is rife with fun tales.

Then Dean sits forward, a shrewd look on his face. “So what’d you call us here about anyway?” 

“Well, we wanted to tell you,” Sam begins, a hesitant smile on his face as he rests his huge hand over Eileen’s smaller one. “Don’t go telling anyone else about it yet, we’re still not out of the danger zone, but—”

“I’m pregnant,” Eileen cuts in, a fond, long-suffering look on her face as she glances at Sam.

For a moment, silence reigns over the table, before Dean explodes upward. “Good job, Sammy!” he exults, completely uncaring of the numerous averted glances being directed their way. Cas grins, reaching over to wrap Eileen in a hug. He feels her grin spread against his cheek and when he draws back to take a closer look at her, cliche though it is, he thinks that there is something glowing about her.

It seems almost rude to take his eyes off of Eileen, but if Cas is being wholly truthful, then he’ll admit that she’s not the most beautiful thing at the table. She’s a close second, but the prize is taken by Dean, whose eyes are suspiciously glassy as he looks down at Eileen. A soft, gentle smile dawns on his face, different from his initial back-slapping euphoria. His hand finds Cas’ and squeezes it in a grip just short of punishing.

“I’m really happy for you two,” Dean says, and Cas can’t help but lean into him.

For the rest of dinner and throughout the drive home, Dean is pensive. His silence fills the car, but it’s neither troubled nor angry, so Cas doesn’t comment on it. By now, he knows when to push and when to let Dean work through whatever issue he’s mulling over in his head. They’ve worked hard, him and Dean, to come to an understanding of each other.

Cas does reach out and take Dean’s free hand on the drive home. He brings the knuckles up to his lips to ghost a kiss across the thin skin. Dean keeps his eyes on the road, but he lifts up his arm in clear invitation and Cas slides across the seat, in violation of every traffic law in existence, to burrow closer to Dean’s body.

Later that night, as Cas nestles in close to Dean on the couch, he asks, “Are you hoping for a girl or a boy?” If he weren’t pressed so close to Dean, then Cas wouldn’t have been able to feel the minute shock run through his body. “For Sam,” he clarifies, when Dean doesn’t answer.

Dean shakes himself out of his stupor. “I don’t know,” he says, tone distracted as he flips through channels. “Either would be cool. Teach them the same stuff either way.”

And Cas can see it, plain as day—Dean out in Sam’s backyard, Bones, Sam’s dog, yapping excitedly, and shrieks of mirth as Dean chases a toddler around the yard, only to reach out and grab them when they stumble. Dean’s rich peals of laughter as he swings a child up on his shoulders. Dean reading quietly to a snoozing child burrowed deep into his side.

“Do you ever think about kids?” Cas asks before he can stop himself, already half-way seduced by the images coursing through his head.

After the words are out, he glances at Dean through startled eyes. He didn’t intend to ask the question, but now that it’s out in the open, he can’t help but wonder how Dean will react to it.

Dean looks back at him with an identical gobsmacked expression on his face. “Do…do  _ you _ ever think about kids?” he asks back, voice barely above a whisper.

“Not usually, but after tonight, I just…” Dean reaches out and laces their fingers together. “I think that we should think about kids,” Cas finishes, locking eyes with Dean.

It barely takes him by surprise when Dean twists on the couch, graceful as an athlete, and claims his mouth in a series of hard, bruising kisses. He tastes the hunger and delight alike in Dean’s caresses and Cas moans as Dean pushes him backwards into the couch. His body adjusts automatically, creating a space for Dean as his arms lift to fold that familiar body in an embrace.

“I really want a family,” Dean says, coming up for air. His eyes are bright and wild, hair mussed from Cas running his fingers through it. “I want kids. And I want,” he pauses, softness returning to his eyes as Cas runs a thumb across his chin, “I want to raise them with you.”

Something in Cas’ heart swells at the admission. He looks into Dean’s eyes, bright and clear, glowing with warmth and love. They’re surrounded by the house they built, the home that they created, and now Dean says that he wants to add more. That he wants to build something greater than just the two of them and that he trusts Cas to be his partner.

“I love you.” The words don’t come anywhere close to encompassing everything that Cas feels for this man, but they’ll have to do. Judging by how Dean’s smile spreads across his face and how his eyes turn misty, they’re enough.

This time when Dean kisses him, it’s soft and sweet, like the first pink clouds heralding a sunrise. The kiss reaches into Cas and sets him alight in places he didn’t even know he possessed until he met Dean.

Dean doesn’t say the words back. Cas understands why he can’t, even if he doesn’t particularly like the reasons. It’s fine, because Dean says it in other ways. Every brush of his fingers against Cas’ face, the brilliance of his smile as he presses his lips to Cas’, they all mean the same thing. The heat of his body as he curls close to Cas later that night says it, as do their interlocked fingers. His breath, ghosting over the back of Cas’ neck, lips close enough to touch the soft skin--How could Cas feel these things and doubt, even for a second, what Dean feels for him?

Cas opens his eyes into a foreign world. 

He’s standing in the middle of what his brain, after a moment’s delay, tells him is a barn. Sketched across every wall, even the roof, are dark, jagged symbols. Cas recognizes none of them. He squints, tilting his head in an attempt to try and find meaning in them, but before he can, the door to the barn bursts open. 

A figure runs into the barn, aggression and fear pouring off of them. Cas stares for a moment before his bewildered brain finally accepts--this is Dean standing in front of him. He’s dressed much the same as he was earlier--boots, jeans, flannel, and a leather jacket. What’s new is the glint of silver--is that a  _ sword _ ?--hanging from his belt. His face has an unfamiliar desperation in it as he glances around the barn. When his eyes find Cas, naked relief floods Dean’s face. 

“Cas,” he says, walking closer. “Jesus, I was so worried--” His hand reaches out to grab Cas' shoulder. His fingers press into flesh, but it’s  _ wrong-- _ Dean’s grip is too hard, his fingers pressing bruises into Cas’ shoulder. His eyes are too bright, too wild--

Cas jerks away. Dean’s hand lingers in the air for a moment before it drops down to his side. 

Cas scans over Dean’s form--the stains at the hem of his jeans, the small cuts that litter his knuckles. Unease rises in him as he takes in the sharp blade pressed against Dean’s hip. He takes a step backwards, even though every piece of his DNA screams against it.

This isn’t right. This isn’t…

“Cas, what the hell?” Dean tries to hide the hurt in his voice, but it bleeds through his squared shoulders and clenched fists. “I’ve been trying for--”

“I don’t know…” Cas’ voice thins out into nothing, but he swallows and starts anew. “I don’t know what you want, but…” He looks towards the open door of the barn. Dean shifts, to where Cas would have to go within arm’s reach of him in order to reach the door. 

“Dean, you’re scaring me.” Cas says the words quietly, hoping that Dean understands the meaning behind those words. Hopes that Dean understands how much it costs him to say them. Hopes that they cut deep--he’s never once before had to tell Dean that his behavior was inappropriate. 

Dean reels back. He looks flabbergasted, but there’s something else lurking behind his furrowed brow. A long-buried instinct in the pit of his belly tells Cas to be wary of this expression, the confusion that could so easily turn to rage. The fists that have already seen violence. 

Cas doesn’t know this Dean. 

“What the hell, Cas?” There’s something dangerous in Dean’s voice, something unaccustomed to defiance. “What’s wrong with you? I’m knees deep in it, and you’re saying that--”

“I want to leave.” Cas forces the words out, clear and bright. He wants no part of this, this Dean cobbled together by nightmares and held together only by violence and rage. 

“Cas, are you fucking kidding me? Sam and I have been trying--”

\---

“--that was the hospital. Nurse thinks that it’s not long now, maybe forty-five minutes.” Dean practically wiggles in glee as he delivers the news, and Cas smiles through his fumbling attempts to dress himself. Tonight, two years of work, begging, tears, and frustration will culminate in the arrival of their son. 

No matter how the rest of the world may have changed, it’s still hard for two men to adopt in Kansas. Cas lost count of the number of meetings that ended with a polite grimace and some version of the lines “ _ Well, you two certainly seem to have everything in order; we’ll just have to get back to you…”  _ Hearts sinking, they would walk out of the office, hands clasped so tightly together that their knuckles turned white, and spend the ride back to the house in silence. Later that night, Dean would crawl into his lap and bury his face in Cas’ chest. Cas would hold him and stroke over Dean’s hair and wish viciously that the world was different. For his part, Cas would manage to hold himself together until he was underneath the scalding spray of the shower. There, he would slam his fist into the wall and muffle his own curses and tears into his knuckles, bite down hard enough to leave marks on his skin. 

And then they met Kelly. Beautiful, intelligent, vibrant Kelly, whose love for her unborn child was so fierce that she was willing to let him go in order to have the life that he deserved. On their first meeting, she’d reached out across the table and taken Cas’ hand in both of hers. 

“You’re right,” she said earnestly, gripping so tight that the small bones in Cas’ hand creaked in warning. “I just know. You’re the right person to raise him.” 

That had been seven months ago. Now, with the news that Kelly is entering into the final stages of labor, Cas’ hands shake with so much excitement that it’s a struggle to tie his shoes. 

After several failed attempts, Cas finally decides  _ screw it _ and rushes downstairs. He and everyone else will just have to live with his untied shoes. Dean waits by the door, practically vibrating with excitement, keys jangling in his hands. They need to go if they want to make it in time, but first, there are more important things to do. Cas pauses for a moment to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist and pull him in close. He kisses Dean soft and sweet, and enough to take the hard edge of anticipation away from both of them. When they part, they’re both easier and steadier than before. 

“You ready?” he asks, pressing the tip of his nose to Dean’s. 

Dean laughs, brushing his lips against the corner of Cas’ mouth. “I’m not sure. You?” 

“Terrified.” 

This is the last time that they leave the house as a childless couple. The next time they walk through the door, they’ll be parents. It’s a heady, staggering, terrifying thought. 

“All right,” Dean says, grinning even through their kiss. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Dean drives them to the hospital. On the way there, Cas never lets go of his hand. He sits next to Dean in the waiting room, placing his hand on Dean’s shaking leg in an attempt to soothe the nerves away. When the doctors finally allow them into the room, dressed in scrubs and masks, Kelly smiles to see them, even as a loud cry erupts from her lips. She holds Cas’ hand through the delivery, while Cas and Dean both murmur encouragement. Hours later, the nurse holds up a red, squalling baby. Dean sobs into Cas’ shoulder, huge, giant gasps of breath that sound like laughter. Dean’s hands tremble when the doctors hand the small bundle to him. The baby burbles and Cas watches, entranced, as a series of small spit bubbles form on his lips. 

“Jack,” Kelly says, voice hazy and dazed. Tears pour down her cheeks, but she’s smiling. “His name is Jack.” 

“Cas,” Dean whispers, his tone reverent. “Cas, come here and hold him.” 

Kelly releases Cas’ hand and Cas reaches out towards Dean. When Dean settles the small body into his arms, when the baby blinks slow and dazed at him, tiny perfect fingers forming into a fist as he yawns, when Cas holds his son ( _ his son _ ) in his arms for the first time...then he breaks down, tears splashing down onto the crown of Jack’s head. Dean’s arms wrap around him as his husband presses their foreheads together, and they look down at the perfect creature in Cas’ arms, their  _ son,  _ the beginnings of a family that Cas will die to protect--

\---

“--to find you for days now!”

Cas blinks through the darkness. Half-realized shapes loom around him, each more menacing than the last. Broken stones litter the ground, while ivy and other plants dangle from the roof. From the moist damp, he thinks that he’s underground. Marble tombs loom large at his side, cool and impenetrable, and a shiver chases its way down his spine. 

He turns in the direction of Dean’s voice and comes face to face with a nightmare. 

Dean’s face, that beloved, familiar face, the face that Cas wakes up next to every morning, the face that he’s seen tight in anger, alight in pleasure, slack in sleep, and open in laughter and tears alike--Dean’s face is obscured underneath a film of filth and gore. Cas’ stomach roils in disgust and fear as he takes in the cuts, the thin trickle of blood dribbling out the corner of Dean’s mouth, his left eye almost swollen shut--

Cas blinks and then it’s just Dean in front of him. 

“The hell, man? You keep jumping around and I can’t get a handle on where you are--”

“I’m here,” Cas says faintly. “I’ve always been…” His words die on the tip of his tongue. 

It’s been years, but he still remembers the dream. The barn with the strange symbols and the even stranger Dean, who was cloaked in rage and violence. That nightmare still haunts him, skirting around the edges of his unconsciousness. It’s never enough for him to remember fully, but it’s enough to send him bolting upright, forehead covered in a cold sweat while Dean murmurs sleepily next to him. 

This right here--This is just a continuation of that nightmare, one from which he can’t wake. 

“Cas, I’m running out of time. I can’t...whatever you’re doing, whatever’s doing this to you, I keep losing you and it takes me longer and longer to find you. And if I can’t get to you in time--”

“This is just a dream.” Cas forces all emotion out of his voice. To have emotion is to feed into the dream. To feed into the dream is to give it strength. The stronger the dream is, the slimmer the chance that he’ll awaken. 

Dean blinks before he draws back in confusion. When he speaks again, it’s obvious that he’s deliberately pitching his voice into what he considers a more soothing register. 

“Cas, buddy, you’re pretty deep in it now, but you’re...This isn’t a dream. Me and you and Sam and Jack, we’re what’s real--”

The sound of his son’s name is as startling as a slap across his face. Adrenaline rushes through Cas, but instead of pumping panic, it pumps rage. His spine straightens as he views the person in front of him with new eyes--no longer something to be feared, but something to be fought. 

“That’s my kid. Don’t you  _ dare _ bring my son into this.” 

Dean’s eyes widen. Something like pain spreads across his face, but Cas doesn’t care about that. All of his other concerns have faded. His fears for his own safety pale against the need to keep his son and his family safe. 

“Cas, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, but you have to believe me--Whatever you’re seeing, whatever’s around you?  _ They’re not real.  _ Me,” Dean thumps his own chest, “and Sam, and our Jack? Us together? That’s what’s real. Whatever you might think, whatever you’re being told--” 

Dean’s expression splits. All of the determination and anger held in his face shatters, replaced by aching earnestness and vivid pain. Instincts hammered in through years of cohabitation rear their heads, urging Cas to go to Dean, to comfort him, to ease his hurt--

“Cas, don’t you remember  _ anything _ ?” Dean asks. 

Cas shakes his head, stepping away. It’s just a lie. He has to repeat the mantra, even as everything in him screams to run and comfort Dean. No matter how much it hurts, it’s just a lie, just something cooked up by his subconscious in order to torture him. 

Dean refuses to look away, even as Cas takes another step backwards. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep on until I find you, I won’t give up, I’ll keep look--”

\---

“--at me!” 

Cas turns around. His mouth drops open in unfeigned delight when he looks at his son’s Halloween costume. Jack’s Iron Man mask sits askew atop his head, but he’s already zipped up and into his suit. The plastic crinkles when he walks holds his bucket, also shaped like Iron Man’s helmet, proudly aloft. 

“Wow!” Cas exclaims, kneeling down to flip Jack’s mask over his face. The mask is stern, but he can hear his son’s laughter behind the thin plastic. “Bad guys better look out with you out there!” 

“With both of us out there,” Claire corrects, adjusting her outfit as she walks in. Captain America’s logo sits proudly on her chest, while a homemade shield rests across her back.  _ Just like it does in the movies, _ she’d said to Dean as they were plotting how to best create it. 

Claire… Claire was an unlooked for gift. Abandoned by father and mother alike, she was left to languish in group homes and foster homes, until she found her way to Jody Mills, a longtime customer of Dean’s. Jody had Claire, then a moody pre-teen, in tow when she made a trip to the garage. Somehow, Claire and Dean had bumped into each other, started a conversation, and the rest, as they said, was history. 

In Dean, Claire found a kindred spirit. Simply put, he was her hero. In Claire’s eyes, Dean could do no wrong. She would gladly walk over hot coals if Dean merely hinted that he’d be interested to see what lay on the other side. 

Cas, on the other hand, she took her time with. 

Cas pushes those thoughts out of his head, focusing instead on the relevant details: Claire, glowing in pride as she twirls in front of him. “You look amazing,” Cas says honestly, taking in her hairstyle, her sensible boots, and her leather gloves. “Peggy Carter would be proud.” 

Claire beams before she walks across the room to throw her arms around his waist. Cas grins as he hugs back. The miracle never grows old. He aches with love, he burns from the inside out with it. Sometimes he’ll lie in bed or look at his family and think,  _ this is it.  _ This is the zenith, the pinnacle of love that one human could achieve. There’s no higher he can climb. Then, he’ll look at his son, or his daughter, or his husband, and crash through the thin barriers, spiraling ever upwards. He understood a while ago that he’ll never discover the true depths of his love, nor does he want to. 

“Ok, we have to get started. Otherwise, all the candy will be gone.” Jack’s gasp at Claire’s proclamation gets a laugh out of Cas and Claire alike. 

Dean pokes his head into the room, shaking his phone in a benign threat. “Not without pictures first!” 

Claire groans and rolls her eyes but obligingly takes Jack’s hand and leads him into the kitchen. “Come on, Dad,” she grouses, though she’s already adjusting her face into a bright smile for the camera. “Jack and I have places to go, people to see.” 

“Oh?” Dean’s face pokes out from behind his phone, eyebrow already raised. “People to meet?” 

Claire flushes, but can’t stop the shy smile which creeps across her face. “Yeah. Um... Kaia said that she was going to try to meet us and walk with us. If that’s ok?” She directs the question to Dean, but her eyes flick towards Cas. 

“I like Kaia!” Jack declares, before either Cas or Dean can weigh judgement. “She draws really pretty stuff and she said that she’s going to teach me!” 

Cas lifts his eyebrows at Dean in an unspoken question. He doesn’t mind Kaia. She’s a little quiet, but every impression she gives is just that, of a shy, introverted teenager. And it doesn’t take a genius to see that she’s completely besotted with Claire, or that the feeling is mutual. 

“Write down Kaia’s phone number before you go,” Dean says. His voice strives for stern but it lands somewhere around indulgent. “And you need to be back at the house by eight. If Kaia wants to come too that’s fine, but you’ve got school tomorrow.” 

Claire and Jack flash almost identical, delighted smiles at them. Dean snaps a few quick pictures, before saying, “All right, selfie time,” and motioning to Cas. 

It takes some finagling, but they’ve got their positioning down to a fine art. Within a few moments, all their faces are in frame. “Say  _ Batman rules,”  _ Dean orders, just to make Claire stick her tongue out and Jack make fake disgusted noises. For solidarity, Cas sticks his tongue out at the camera too, even knowing that these pictures will shortly find their way online and to almost everyone in Dean’s contact list. 

Dean snaps a few pictures and examines them before he releases everyone from their positions. “All right, get out of here,” he orders, though his hands brush over Claire and Jack’s shoulders like he’s not quite ready to let go. “Call us if you need anything. Don’t talk to strangers. Always say thank you when people give you candy."

“You betcha, Dad. Pops.” Before Dean can shout anymore advice, she’s out the door, Jack’s hand held in hers as they go off to conquer the neighborhood. 

A sweet pain twists in Cas’ chest. Watching his children scamper away from him hurts, even if it’s for the simple task of trick-or-treating. Unable to say goodbye just yet, he follows them to the front door, Dean close behind. Outside, Cas spies the bouncing of other flashlights as children start to flood the normally quiet streets. Dean presses his forehead against the window, watching after Claire and Jack until they turn the corner of the street and disappear from view. 

“They’ll be fine. This is their second time, and Claire knows to call us if she runs into any problems.” 

Dean turns back to him, a guilty expression on his face. “I know you worry.” Cas slots himself behind Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and resting his cheek on the flat spot between Dean’s shoulders. “But they’ll be fine.” 

Nostalgia mingles with pride. In just a few short years, Claire will be leaving for college. She’s insistent that she wants to go to vet school. And then, after she leaves, it’ll only be a few short years until Jack leaves for college…

“Hey.” Dean cranes his head to the side in what must be a truly painful angle just so he can brush his cheek against Cas’. “Only one of us is allowed to be mopey at a time.” 

Cas hums as he digs his chin into Dean’s back and starts to sway from side to side. He brings Dean into his motions, until they’re both rocking back and forth in a strange parody of dancing. “You know that Claire and Jack will be gone for at least an hour, right?” Just in case Dean is slow on the uptake, he rolls his hips deliberately into the curve of his husband’s ass. 

Dean cranes his head to look back at him. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth before it bursts out in a rich laugh that Dean can’t contain, nor would Cas want him to. The laugh is caught between them as Dean’s lips meet Cas’. The angle is awkward, Dean twisting over his shoulder to reach Cas, but the sweet fire still sparks through his veins. “Right here in front of the window?” He presses into Cas. “Kinky, babe. I like it.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Cas laughs, walking deliberately backwards without ever letting go of his hold on Dean’s waist. “You know I didn’t mean I wanted the whole neighborhood look--”

\---

“--ing for you until I get you to come back with me!”

Cas blinks and staggers back a few steps as his world shifts with jarring suddenness. Unlike the claustrophobic confines of the previous space, this place is open and unsettling in its barrenness. The skin at the back of his neck prickles. There’s something wrong about this place. From the looks of it, he’s standing in the living room of an abandoned house, but it’s too spotless to be real. The floors practically gleam and all the furniture is pushed to the edges of the room. 

In the center of the room, a perfect circle of fire burns. 

The flames never threaten to leave their spot, but Cas recoils from the sight. He can’t look at the flames for longer than a few seconds at a time. Every time he does, disgust and fear war within him, until he fears that he’s going to be sick. Something terrible happened here, or will happen here. 

Cas wants very badly to get away from this room. 

He flicks his eyes to the opposite side of the room. The circle of fire separates him from the other Dean. His features are just barely visible through the flames. Strangely, Dean looks as disturbed by the fire as Cas feels, as a complicated array of emotions chase themselves across his face. 

“The hell is going on here, Cas?”

“I don’t... This is all just a dream.” Cas clings to that certainty. If he lets that slip, if he even contemplates a second of this as reality, then he’ll never find his way back. “I don’t know why I keep…” 

Something pushes at the back of his mind, like remembering that he left the stove on when he’s already at the hospital, like realizing that he forgot Eileen’s birthday present when they’re already pulling into Sam’s driveway. Awful and inescapable. It’s tied to the fire, to Dean, to a seething mass of regret, betrayal, and anger. It’s so familiar that it makes Cas want to gag, just so he can expel it out of him. 

“It’s just a dream,” Cas insists, even though he can feel the heat wafting off of the fire. Even though the cold fingers of dread clench around his heart. 

“You don’t believe that.” 

“It’s just a dream.” Cas’ voice rises and he refuses to look at Dean. “Nothing else makes sense!” 

“Cas. Please.” Dean starts to inch around the fire, creeping closer and closer with every step. “You know that this isn’t right. You know that you’re not supposed to be here.” 

“You’re right.” Peace settles over Cas as he evaluates Dean’s words and sifts through them for the truth. “I’m not supposed to be here.” 

Relief shows on Dean’s face, but it’s a short-lived thing.

“Whatever...this is, I’m not supposed to be here.” Cas forces himself to look at the perfect circle of fire, ignoring the shudder of revulsion that works its way through his body. 

Something awful happened there. 

And not just there. Everywhere these dreams have taken him--the close, underground room of before, the barn with its odd symbols--violence clings to those places, thick enough to taste in the air. Terrible things happened there, occurrences so horrific that Cas’ brain reels from them in a headlong desire for escape. And this man in front of him, this man who looks like his husband, but could never be him--he’s tied up in all of these places. Cas wants no part of him. 

“Cas,” Dean tries. His voice pitches into a plea, but Cas draws away. 

“No.” He gains more certainty the further away he puts himself from the fire. “I’m not coming back here. To any of this. I don’t care--therapy, whatever it takes. I’m not coming back here. This isn’t... I belong with my husband. With our children. With my  _ family _ .” He looks at the false Dean. Even though he knows that this isn’t  _ his _ Dean, it still hurts a part of him to reject any version of Dean. “Not with you.” 

Cas turns towards the door, leaving the other Dean on the opposite side of the fire. Dean hurls words and pleas at him, each striking him between the shoulders like a blow, but Cas never hesitates. He closes his eyes and waits to wake up. 

That isn’t his world.

Cas is busy puzzling over the recipe for dinner when he hears the door open. Happiness sparks in his belly along with a small squirm of confusion. 

“Hey, babe,” he greets Dean. He twists his head to the side, ready to place a kiss on Dean’s cheek, and frowns when Dean isn’t there. Instead, his husband places himself on the opposite side of the kitchen, leaning against the dining room doorway. A small tendril of suspicion curls through Cas, but he banishes it with nothing more than a swift jerk of his head. “I thought you were picking Jack up from soccer practice?” 

His attention is consumed by the ingredients in front of him. He’s trying to make this dinner the best that it can be. Not only is it Claire’s favorite, but she’s also bringing Kaia over for dinner. Call Cas a hopeless romantic, but he wants to see his daughter happy. 

“Got a call from one of the other parents. They’re going to drop him off on their way.” 

Cas hums. Something nags at the back of his mind, but he shakes his head and dismisses the thought. “Brown the garlic,” he murmurs, before he gives the pan a tentative shake. 

“You’re cooking?”

Cas glances over at Dean, who, to his credit, looks apologetic. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. I’m not hopeless.” 

“Right,” Dean says, crossing his arms. “I just... It’s a good look for you.” A faint pink blush chases itself across Dean’s cheeks. 

“Don’t distract me.” Cas slides his eyes up and down Dean’s frame. “Later.” 

Dean’s blush deepens and he strangles a cough behind the back of his hand. Cas grins as he turns back to the pan. “Is the garlic aromatic yet?” 

“You have to wait until it browns a little.” 

Cas frowns. “Is this brown?” He flicks his eyes towards Dean. “Come here.” 

Dean takes his time shoving off of the wall. Another little piece of doubt festers in Cas’ chest, but he shoves that away as well. It’s important that he get this dinner right for Claire. 

Dean stands just out of arm’s reach and peers into the pan. “Little bit more. You have to… Here.” He reaches down to take the wooden spoon out of Cas’ hand, but only manages to tangle their fingers together. Cas squeezes and lifts their conjoined hands to the pan. 

“You want to help?” 

The blush spreads across the back of Dean’s neck. After a long moment, he says, “Yeah, all right,” and steps closer. 

Cas leans into Dean, closing his eyes for a moment as he relishes in a rare moment of quiet. With Claire graduating in May and Jack just beginning to find hobbies and extracurriculars--soccer, Boy Scouts, and theater--things have been crazy in their house. Finding a moment for themselves, just him and Dean…

“I’ve missed you,” Cas murmurs, forgetting the pan sizzling on the stove for a long moment. He turns to Dean, wrapping his arms around his neck. 

Dean blinks in a rapid Morse code. His eyes dart from Cas’ eyes to his mouth and back again, until Cas is dizzy just from watching. “Yeah,” Dean finally says, his eyes settling on looking into Cas’. “Yeah, I’ve missed you too.” 

Cas’ fingers stroke through the fine hairs at the base of Dean’s neck, smiling at the small shiver and groan that he gets in return. All these years and he still knows exactly how to play Dean. All these years… “You’re still so beautiful,” Cas murmurs, fingers pressing at the base of Dean’s skull to angle his head. 

There’s an unusual moment of resistance, an odd second where Dean seems to be fighting him, but then Dean lowers his head to brush his lips against Cas’. 

It’s amazing to Cas that he can be with the same person for so long and have each kiss taste like the first. Dean’s motions have a hesitance to them, his kisses have a lingering sweetness in the way that he makes continuous soft noises into Cas’ mouth. His hands grab at the back of Cas’ head and his waist, like he’s afraid that Cas will disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. 

“Cas,” Dean pants when they separate for breath. “Oh fuck. Cas.” 

Dean ducks his head down and Cas indulges him for a moment before he pulls away. “Much as I’d love to grab a quickie, I need to finish this.” Dean makes a compelling case by tracing the bow of his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, but Cas manages to pull himself away. “Dean, I’m serious. Claire’s bringing Kaia over for dinner and I want to make sure that everything is ready for them.” 

“Cas.” Dean’s fingers dig into the muscle of his biceps, holding him still. He presses his forehead hard into Cas’. His breathing is uneven as he shakes his head back and forth. “Don’t you...don’t you want…”

“Dean.” Cas rests his hand on Dean’s cheek to bring Dean’s focus back to him. “Dean, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?” 

“Don’t you want to just... to just leave? Get out of here?” 

“Dean, I don’t…” Cas hasn’t seen Dean act like this in years. He hasn’t seen Dean act like this... ever--hesitant but aggressive, comforting but unhinged. “What happened today?” 

A broken, uneven laugh falls from Dean’s throat, as his fingers flex, borderline painful, on Cas’ forearms. “Nothing. Nothing happened today. I just... You’ve got to want a vacation, right? A break from all of this? I mean, this apple-pie life, this suburb thing... this isn’t for you.” 

Cas tries to step away, but Dean holds him fast. “Dean, let me go.” Cas tries to keep his voice even but a thin thread of anger and worry creeps in. “Whatever’s bothering you, we can talk about it.” 

He’s not expecting the bitter sound that resembles laughter to burst from Dean’s lungs. “Talk about it? Since when do we do that?”

“Because we’re in a relationship and we’re raising two children, which means that we have to  _ talk  _ about these things and not...not…” Cas’ mouth goes dry as he looks at Dean. Memories rear their heads--standing across from a Dean that’s identical to his, but still different in that undefinable way that sends unease rippling down his spine. 

He’s a fool for not spotting it sooner. 

“Get out of here,” Cas orders. He ruthlessly suppresses every part of him that wants to be afraid and clings instead to the anger. “You’re not welcome here. This is my  _ home _ .” 

“No, Cas. No it’s not.” Dean’s fingers press mercilessly into Cas’ arms. “This isn’t your home, Jack and Claire aren’t your kids, and I’m not…” Dean’s throat bobs and for a swift second, pain is writ plain on his face, before he says, mercilessly, “I’m not your husband. This is the dream.” He shakes Cas, hard enough to jolt him. “Don’t you get it? Out there in the real world, where I am, you have people that are counting on you. They need you Cas,  _ they’re _ what’s real! You don’t get to stay here, playing house for a bunch of pretend people!” 

“You’re insane,” Cas breathes. “I’m not... This is my home. I have a husband, I have two children, I have a job that I love. I’m never--” 

_ Barn doors bursting open, knife plunging into flesh, wings spreading across the rafters. Fire burning around him, betrayal burning hot and sour in the back of his throat, the relentless ripping of his heart as he hears the car drive away. The dank moistness of a crypt pressing in around him, the split of skin against his knuckles, the choked bubble of blood and spittle-- _

Cas shakes his head, dislodging the nightmare. “I’m never coming back.” 

A deeper truth yawns in front of him, awful and terrible. There’s something there that he can’t touch, something too horrific to contemplate. “I’m not... This is where I belong. Claire’s going to school in a few months and Jack’s just starting soccer... Dean’s expanding the garage and I’m getting promoted to Head Nurse…” 

“Goddammit Cas, that’s not real!” This time when Dean shakes him, Cas’ teeth clack together. “None of this is! Haven’t you always wondered how everything’s perfect for you? How everything just seems to fall in place? Didn’t you ever think that maybe it was too good to be true?” 

“It’s no sin to have a good life.” 

“It’s a fucking fairytale! Real life is hard and painful and bloody. It’s not this... this white-washed fucking bullshit!” 

Dean’s raised his voice at him before; not even Dean would deny that he has a temper. But Dean’s never spoken to him with this kind of venom. When Cas looks at Dean’s eyes, for the first time he sees a shred of hatred in them. 

“I don’t care what you want. I’m dragging you back if I have to beat the shit out of you to do it.” 

Dean’s grip turns punishing as Cas tries to struggle free. All thought of negotiation is lost in the overwhelming wave of fear that washes over him. He doesn’t bother to play it cool; he needs to get away. Away from this lunatic who wants to drag him from his family, from his home. 

“Get off me!” Cas cries, twisting and kicking. “Dean, Dean, please, please, let me go, please let me stay, I want to stay--”

“I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs, and the strangest thing is, Cas hears the regret thick in his voice. It doesn’t stop Dean from twisting Cas’ arm behind his back until Cas yelps in pain. “God, I’m so sorry, Cas.” 

“Please.” Cas sags backwards into Dean. A single tear leaks out the corner of his eye. “Please, just let me go.” 

Dean’s cheek presses against Cas’ temple; his breath ruffles the top of his hair. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Cas, but I can’t.” 

Cas opens his mouth, to beg, to scream, but before he can say anything, Dean bellows out, “ **_SAM!_ ** ” 

And Cas’ world disappears in a flash of white. 

“Did it work?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know. He didn’t... There were problems.” 

“What kind of problems?”

“I don’t... Just problems, Sam. Jesus.” 

Cas knows those voices. Dean. And Sam. Voices so familiar that they should bring him comfort, but instead they only make his skin crawl. 

But he also knows that this isn’t his bed. The mattress is stiff against his body, unlike the memory foam mattress that Dean insisted they buy. Years of working in a hospital have made his nose sensitive to the smell--antiseptic and the vague smell of bodies and vomit. Cas smells none of that, which means that he’s not lying in a hospital bed either. 

He opens his eyes. He’s treated to a blurry vision of an unfamiliar room--tile on the walls and aged medical equipment scattered around the room. The bed that he’s lying on looks like a holdover from the 1950’s. And surrounding the bed are Dean, Sam, Eileen, and an unknown teenager. 

It’s the teen who notices his state first. “Cas!” He reaches out with a sunny grin which fades which Cas flinches away from him. “Dean?” the boy calls, looking uncertainly between Cas and Dean. 

Cas’ eyes flick over to Dean. His stomach drops to his ankles, then swoops back to his throat. He tastes bile. 

It’s the same Dean who yanked him from his home, the same one who twisted Cas’ arm behind his back and threatened him, the same one who refused to listen to Cas’ pleas. 

Cas finds a tiny kernel of satisfaction in the fact that Dean can’t look at him for longer than a second. 

“Cas?” Sam’s voice is soft and soothing, pitched to reassure. His eyes are kind and gentle and his mouth is arranged in a comforting smile. 

Cas hates him. Whatever this place is, whoever these people are--Sam had a part in dragging him here. 

“You alright, Cas? You back with us?” 

All eyes are on him, even Dean’s. Cas looks through all of them and finds not a shred of his life. 

“I don’t know,” he says, inching up the mattress and away from them. “I’ve never met any of you before in my life.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	2. part two

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**_two weeks previous_ **

**__ **

“Hey, have you heard from Cas?”

Sam pauses in mixing up what looks to be a truly disgusting smoothie. His forehead wrinkles before it smooths out. “No.” He hits the button on the blender and Dean winces as a rattling, grinding noise fills his previously peaceful kitchen. “But he generally doesn’t text me to let me know about his itinerary.” 

His voice is heavy with implication, which frankly, Dean could do without. He almost snaps at Sam to keep his giant forehead out of his business, but instead, he forces down his worry and picks at the bacon crowding his plate. He forces himself to eat a piece and it slides down his throat, leaving a lingering trail of heavy grease in the back of his mouth. 

He’d almost been hoping that would be the end of it, but he should have known better, bringing it up to Sam. The Great Moose settles down across the table from him, face already set in his Let Me Help You Please expression. “Is Cas in trouble?”

No. Maybe. Probably.

Dean forces a shrug that probably looks anything but nonchalant. “Dunno. Just, he left here three days ago on... whatever, and he said that it was only going to take a few days. Haven’t heard anything from him since then.” 

Sam’s face creases in sympathy and for a wild moment, Dean wants to punch him in the face. He loves his brother, but he can’t bear to see the pity flashing in Sam’s eyes. “You know that Cas has his own stuff to do,” which yeah. Right. Cas always has his own stuff. Cas has had his own stuff going on from the very moment that Dean met him. _I’m not here to perch upon your shoulder,_ he’d told Dean at their second meeting, and you gotta hand it to him, he’s held true to that statement for years now. 

“Yeah, I know.” His voice is an uncharitable grunt. He forces himself to eat another piece of bacon despite deriving no pleasure from the act. “Just wondered if he’d called you.” 

Sam’s fingers tap against his glass to a rhythm that only he knows. “You know that Cas would be here every day if he could. He doesn’t want to leave.” 

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t seem to stop him.” His snap of frustration reveals probably more than he would like, but it’s just Sam. And, from the second that Cas’ name left his lips, Sam has probably known exactly what was going on. 

Dean stands up from the table. His chair skitters backward across the kitchen floor in a noisy clamor. “Don’t worry about it,” he says gruffly. “Like you said--If he was in trouble then he would call. He’s probably just...I don’t know. Whatever the hell angels do.” 

“Why don’t you call him?” Sam’s question would be the logical solution, but Dean’s made a career at this point of ignoring the logical solution. 

“Whatever. He’ll come home when he comes home.” 

The sounds of Eileen and Jack moving around the bunker reach them in the kitchen. Sam can’t control the involuntary flick of his eyes to where her voice echoes through the corridors, any more than Dean can control the lurch of his heart anytime Cas’ name comes up in conversation. 

“Call him,” Sam says. He gets up from the table, quieter than Dean. On his way out the door, he pauses. His hand rests heavily on Dean’s shoulder, pushing him down into the ground with its heavy comfort. “Even if he’s fine. He’ll like hearing from you.” He squeezes Dean’s shoulder before he takes his smoothie and starts out towards where Eileen and Jack are laughing. “And you like talking to him too.” 

His steps echo out of the kitchen. Dean listens to his voice join the rest outside. He thinks about Cas, just before he left, how he’d lingered in the doorway, like he was waiting for an invitation to stay. 

Dean fishes his phone out of his back pocket and taps out a quick message. 

_hey just wondering when you’re going to be back. planning on making burgers and i need someone to appreciate them_

He sends it before he can overthink it. Then he tucks his phone back in his pocket, where it sits for the rest of the day. It’s a useless, silent weight around his neck and all it does is remind him that Cas hasn’t called back. 

One day passes, and then another, and another after that. Cas doesn’t call. 

“He’s not answering his messages, and every call goes straight to voicemail. I tracked the GPS on his phone and it hasn’t moved for the last five days.” Dean paces around the war room, aware that Eileen and Sam’s eyes are following his every move. “I think... I think he’s in trouble.” 

Luckily, he’s preaching to the choir on this one. Sam leans forward, and Dean can already see the cogs in his mind turning. “Where’s the signal from his phone coming from?” 

Dean rattles off the answer without even looking. “Bigfork, Montana. I asked Jack to poke around there, see what he can see.” 

As if summoned by his name, a flurry of wings sounds in the war room. Jack drops into a chair, looking benevolently around the room. 

Dean can’t deny the small curl of warmth in his chest when he looks at Jack. Getting him back was... In a life filled with losing, Jack’s return was one of the very few wins. The little circle of his family was slotted back into place, despite the fact that Cas and Jack were gone more often than not. Jack because Heaven is still shaky and unstable after Chuck’s... departure, and Cas because...well, because Cas has made it perfectly clear that he can only stand their company for a maximum of a week before he gets wanderlust. 

“Hi guys,” Jack says, with a tiny wave to the small chorus of greetings that accompanies his arrival. 

“Did you make it to Bigfork?” Dean asks, cutting the small talk short. 

Jack turns to him. From the very Cas-like expression on his face, Dean already knows that the news isn’t going to be good. 

“I looked around as best I could, but there’s warding over half the town.” 

“Yeah, but you can break through that, right? I mean, you’ve got enough power to smash through them, no problem.” 

Jack shrugs at Sam. “These were put up by someone who knows what they’re doing. There’s something woven into them that keeps even me out. My guess is that it’s meant to work both ways--no angels in and no angels out.” 

Dean slaps his hands on the table. “All right, get your shit packed. Looks like we’re headed to Bigfork, Montana!” 

Bigfork, Montana looks like every other comparable town of its size and makeup that Dean’s ever been to in his entire life. Main Street is crowded with an eclectic mix of shops, none of which Dean particularly cares about at the moment. 

“Where did you say the wardings were?” Dean directs his question to the backseat. Jack and Eileen don’t look at him; both of them are too busy peering out the windows. Eileen’s face creases in concern and concentration, while Jack’s forehead furrows as he considers Dean’s question. 

“Further down this way. They cut about halfway through the town.” Dean continues driving until Jack’s face creases in pain. “Here. They start here.” 

Dean finds the first available spot along the sidewalk and parks. His heart pounds in his chest and he can taste the anticipation in the back of his throat. Even though Sam would make fun of him for saying so, he knows that they’re close to Cas. He can _feel_ it, the same way he can step into a house and immediately tell that there’s a ghost attached to the structure. 

He’d called Cas’ phone earlier that morning and gotten nothing but a voicemail message. Before he could restrain himself, Dean found himself speaking immediately after Cas’ message left off. “Look Cas, I don’t know what’s happening with you, but we’re coming to get you, all right? So just...Hold on. Please.” 

He’d hung up and tossed his phone aside. Dozens of scenarios chased themselves through his head--Cas broken and bleeding, Cas strung up and waiting, Cas bound in a burning circle--Dean gnawed on the knuckle of his index finger, unable to stop the parade of horrors from dancing through his head. 

All through the drive, Dean had the same pictures going through his head. They never leave him, not even when he’s searching for the wards that keep Jack out. Though he hasn’t said anything, he has a sinking suspicion that they’re going to need Jack when they find Cas. 

A moment later, he hears Eileen’s triumphant call of “Found it!” and turns around in time to watch her slash through a few sigils with the tip of her knife. Immediately, the tension in Jack’s posture fades and he breathes easier. 

“I can feel him,” Jack says, glancing several streets over. “He’s...I can--”

Within the space between one breath and another, Dean goes from standing on the sidewalk to standing just outside one of their typical rundown motels. A quick glance confirms that Sam and Eileen made the trip with them as well. 

“He’s in there,” Jack says, indicating the door with a tarnished ‘105’ hanging on it. “I don’t…” He winces in concentration. “Something’s wrong, I don’t know--” 

And that’s it for Dean. He’d been hanging onto the last semblances of self-control until Jack said _something’s wrong_. At the sound of that, Dean loses it. 

His foot slams into the door at its weakest point, breaking the door jamb and sending the door swinging open. He lifts his gun, ready to take down any foe, but the dark room is empty, save for a lone figure on the bed. 

“Cas?” Dean calls, refusing to stop scanning. There has to be someone, something here--Cas wouldn’t let himself just... lie there. 

“Dean, there’s no one here,” Sam calls, coming out from the bathroom. He flicks on the lamp, bathing the room in a sickly yellow light. “There’s just...What’s wrong with him?” 

For the first time, Dean dares to look down at the bed. Once he does, he can’t stop. 

Cas lies on the bed, hands folded on his stomach. If Dean didn’t have the heavy stone of foreboding roiling in his stomach, then he would think that Cas was simply asleep. 

“Cas!” he snaps. When there’s no reaction from Cas, he shakes him. “Cas!” he calls again. 

Cas’ head lolls to the side, but there’s not a flicker behind his eyelids. He never flinches. He looks...he looks…

Dean is slammed by the memory, from years ago, when he was on his knees outside beside a motionless Cas, blood spreading from the wound on his chest, wings burned into the ground beside him. Cas had been just as still then, as unreachable as he is now. 

Emotion rises, hot and thick, in Dean’s throat, and he reaches out to shake Cas, to force him awake, but he’s neatly elbowed out of the way by Sam and Jack. “Fix him.” Dean hears the tightness in his voice, but he ignores Sam’s sharp look. 

Jack lays two fingertips on Cas’ forehead. A faint wrinkle appears between his eyebrows as he concentrates. One second, then another, then another passes. Dean’s heart rattles against his chest as he watches. It’s too long, this is taking too long--

Jack opens his eyes. They’re wide and plaintive, with a hint of fear as he looks at Sam and Dean. “I can’t...something’s wrong,” he says. He sounds like the child that he is, scared and looking for reassurance. “I can’t reach him.” 

“Dean, you’re not thinking rationally.” Sam’s tone is painfully rational, his hands held out in appeasement. He’s blocking the doorway, apparently unaware that the most dangerous place in the world at present, is between Dean and anything that would help Cas. He realizes it before it’s too late and slides carefully out of the way as Dean barrels through the door to the storeroom.

“The hell I’m not,” Dean snaps, rummaging through one of the drawers. He’s got no idea where they keep shit these days; Cas was the one who went through and reorganized the drawers according to a system that only he understands. 

“We don’t know what’s wrong with him.” A small muscle at the corner of Sam’s jaw ticks away. “We don’t even know if the dreamroot will work on an angel.” 

“You have a better idea?” Dean shoves through the various vials in the cabinet. Something breaks, but it’s nothing that he wants, so he’ll worry about it later. “Let’s see what you’ve come up with, which is a grand total of...nothing. You’ve come up with exactly nothing. So get out of my way and let me do this.” 

“Dean!” Sam’s hand clamps around his wrist. Dean tries to shake him off, but somewhere in the past months, Sam’s been working out, because he has a grip of death. 

Dean takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Then another. “I can’t just...I can’t sit here and do _nothing._ ” 

In the next room, Cas lies on a bed. He hasn’t moved in days. Nothing that Jack does will wake him. Eileen’s been poring through the books, with Sam’s help, and hasn’t found anything. And Dean...Dean can’t stay caught in inertia forever. Not when it’s Cas lying out there. 

“What happens if you can’t reach him?” Sam asks. One by one his fingers release Dean’s wrist. 

Dean pushes that possibility away into whatever ether impossible things go to. “Then I’ll figure something else out.” He opens another cabinet and breathes a sigh of relief as he sees the small box, labeled in Cas’ tidy handwriting. “I can’t just...He’s in trouble, Sam. He needs our help.” 

And Sam, bless him, doesn’t pitch another argument. 

Dean mixes up the tincture. He shakes it, sniffs, and winces at the smell. Drinking dreamroot is always like drinking congealed coffee mingled with the grounds and mixed with sour milk, but Dean can push his disgust away, just for a moment. 

He looks down at the motionless figure on the bed. Cas’ lips pull downwards in a frown that looks tragic instead of just customary. Stubble dots his cheeks and chin while his dark lashes rest on his cheeks. Something in Dean’s chest twists. He doesn’t take enough time to just...appreciate Cas. Not only his aesthetic qualities, but the other, more important stuff as well, like his humor, or his grumpiness, or his intelligence, or his sometimes askew but always fervent sense of justice. His endless compassion and endurance and his almost naive belief in humanity’s best qualities. In _Dean’s_ best nature.

When he gets Cas back, he’ll tell him all of that. He’ll tell him…

“All right,” Dean murmurs, more as a way to stop the runaway train of his thoughts than to gather up any kind of courage. “Let’s do this.” 

He takes hold of some of Cas’ hair and pulls it out with a sharp tug. Cas doesn’t flinch. 

Dean drops the dark hair into the concoction and swallows back the instinctive gag reflex. No matter how he feels about Cas, drinking hair will never cease to be disgusting. 

He doesn’t pay attention to how his hand wanders back to brush over Cas’ hair or how he sinks his fingers into the soft tresses for the briefest of moments. He needs that to ground himself, just to remind himself of why he’s doing this. 

“Bottoms up,” Dean says to steel himself, before he tosses back the dream root. 

The tincture begrudgingly slides down his throat, leaving behind an oily aftertaste and a slimy coating in his mouth. No matter how many times he rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he can’t rid himself of the taste, but that’s fine because soon enough, he’s not going to be conscious.

“If you’re not back in three hours, I’m pulling the plug,” Sam warns. He looms even larger than normal as Dean settles himself down on the infirmary’s other bed. 

“Yeah, yeah. Wish me luck.” 

Sam’s face softens. Dean’s eyelids are getting heavier by the second, so he can’t be sure, but he thinks he catches a flash of pity across his brother’s face. “Good luck,” Sam says as he steps away from the bed. His expression settles into the familiar determination that Dean has come to know so well. “Three hours, and then I’m pulling you out.” 

Dean would respond, but his eyelids are already so damn heavy. 

The next time Dean blinks he finds himself standing outside a ramshackle barn. It’s the middle of the night, as evidenced by the moon hanging low overhead. A swift breeze whips around his ankles and Dean fights back a shiver. Something about this place…

The door to the barn creaks with the force of the wind, straining against its hinges as the wind playfully slams it against the side of the wall. Dean gets a glimpse of the inside of the barn and then it slams into him, the reason that he recognizes this barn. 

This is the first place that he saw Cas. 

Dean sprints towards the barn. Cas, Cas is there, just a few more seconds and he can see…

He bursts into the barn, breath torn ragged from his lungs as he glances around. Everything is as he remembers from years ago--the table stacked high with weapons, the symbols and sigils spray painted onto the wall. The only thing that’s different is that their positions are reversed--Cas stands at the table while Dean is framed by the open doors of the barn. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, relief pulsing through his body. His arms ache to hold Cas, to pull him closer, to reassure him that Cas is here, that Cas is _whole_. “Jesus, I was so worried--”

His hand lands heavy on Cas’ shoulder, fingers digging into the firm flesh so that he can reassure himself that Cas is here, that Cas is _real._ Worry and relief war in him and he wants nothing more than to shake Cas before folding him into a smothering embrace. For one, shining second, Dean knows, everything is going to be all right. 

It comes crashing down when Cas jerks out of his grasp. 

It’s like a slap in the face. Not once, _never_ , has Cas pulled away from him. Dean’s hand hangs uselessly in midair before it falls to his side once more. Rejection sits heavy at the back of his throat as he glances over Cas’ form. 

Far from his usual uniform of suit and coat, Cas is dressed in a shirt that Dean would swear is stolen straight from his closet and a faded pair of jeans. Dean’s never seen Cas look so relaxed, so comfortable, like he’s finally figured out a way to fit into his own skin. 

“Cas, what the hell?” He can’t help but give way to the hurt blossoming in him the only way he knows how, with irritation and anger and the idea of _they hit you, you hit back twice as hard._ It’s only for a second, and then Dean forces all of that back down. He can’t deal with something as paltry as his own emotions now, not with the clock ticking away the seconds. He needs to get Cas back as soon as possible, which means that he needs to get Cas to come with him instead of fighting him. “I’ve been trying for--” 

“I don’t know…” The words are hesitant, awkward things, tripping over themselves and going nowhere. Alarms ring in the back of Dean’s mind. This is Mr. _I don’t get words wrong_ ; Cas never stumbles over what he’s going to say. The small flicker of unease sparking in Dean’s chest flares into a wildfire. “I don’t know what you want, but…” 

Cas’ eyes flick towards the door. Instinct born from years of hunting takes over, and Dean slides to block the only exit. He’s not prepared for the swift blanch of fear that crosses Cas’ face. 

“Dean, you’re scaring me.” Cas says the words like every Lifetime movie. Like Dean is some kind of rabid beast that he hopes to soothe into compliance. None of this is right. Cas is...Cas is a force of nature, capable of steamrolling over Dean as easy as breathing. Cas has never, _never_ been afraid of him.

“What the hell, Cas?” Genuine irritation rears its ugly head. He doesn’t have _time_ for this, not when every second that passes is another waste of time. He needs Cas to come with him, he needs _Cas,_ not this wilting lily of a man-- “The hell is wrong with you? I’m knees deep in it, and you’re saying that--”

“I want to leave.” 

Cas’ voice cuts through his anger like a blade. 

Fear makes Dean intemperate, makes him lash out and snap, “Cas, are you fucking kidding me? Sam and I have been trying--”

And then Dean blinks and Castiel is gone. 

It takes Dean a moment to determine the logic of it all. 

Back when he’d taken a trip into Bobby’s mind via dreamroot, the world had flowed around him like an actual dream. He hadn’t been able to change the setting entirely, but he could influence certain outcomes if he thought about it hard enough. It was like Bobby had set the stage and Dean was an actor who could rearrange the props. 

Cas’ dream, if it is a dream, is nothing like that. Dean thinks as hard as he can-- _Take me to Cas, Cas, I need to find Cas, take me to him--_ but he stays put in the barn. 

He goes outside and starts walking in an attempt to escape this scene, but no matter how far he walks, he always seems to loop back around to the barn. Each time the old, rotting beams of the structure come into view, Dean’s heart sinks. He needs...he needs _Cas_ , dammit, needs to get him and get out of here. 

“Goddammit,” Dean curses, pounding his fist into his thigh. “I need...I need to see him, damn you. I need...” He clamps his jaw before the next words can escape. He can’t say them; not even here with no one around to hear them. To say them aloud would be to acknowledge the reason for this awful ache in his chest. 

He blinks and the landscape changes. 

The barn has disappeared. In its place is an abandoned house, set in a small clearing with tangled brush pushing at the boundaries of the small piece of civilization. On a road with mingled gravel and dirt, sits in the Impala. The windows are fogged. And inside...

“No. No.” Dean clenches his jaw so hard that it hurts. “Fuck you, no. Not that.” 

Because if he creeps closer, he knows what he’ll see. He knows what’s waiting for him in that tiny space, what dreams and possibilities are hidden by the seemingly innocuous barrier of steel and leather. 

Dean wants no part of it. 

And all the while, the seconds are ticking away and Cas is no closer to him than he was before. 

Dean expected some resistance. When Dean came to him to tell Bobby that he was caught in the recesses of his own mind, he fought against the idea. Hell, Dean didn’t believe Sam and Cas when they came bursting into his brain with some ridiculous idea that Michael was keeping him a prisoner. He’d expected Cas to put up some resistance to the notion, but he’d never expected this level of denial. 

It hurts, in the kind of soul-deep pain that Dean carries around with him like an ever-present, always growing piece of luggage. 

He backs away from the Impala, ignoring the silhouette of a hand splayed across a window. He ignores the way that it feels like he’s leaving part of him behind as he turns his back on the Impala and starts to walk away. 

“Cas!” he shouts to the sky. “Wherever the fuck you are, come on! Cas! I’ve been trying--”

\---

“--to find you for days now!” 

Dean’s words fall into a tomblike silence. His stomach lurches, more as a reflex than any real sense of nausea. He’s too busy taking in the details of this new location, too busy watching Cas’ expression as he glances around the small, enclosed environment. From the look on his face, it’s obvious that Cas has no idea where they are. 

Dean does. 

He aches with the memory of Cas’ fists pummeling his body. He can almost hear his shouts echoed through the room, the pained grunts and gasps, the pleas for Cas to _stop._ He licks his lips and tastes blood. 

Cas looks at him and for a moment his face reflects the same horror that Dean feels while trapped inside the crypt. Then the expression is gone as though it never existed, leaving Cas’ face with the oddly superficial blankness that sends a shudder of revulsion trickling down his spine. 

This is not...Something is rotten with this whole thing, and it leaves Dean feeling desperate and angry and all other sorts of churning emotions that he can’t put his finger on. He settles on anger because that one comes jumping to his use as easy as a trained poodle. 

“The hell, man? You keep jumping around and I can’t get a handle on where you are--”

“I’m here.” Cas looks vaguely ill as his fingertips trail over the smooth marble of a tomb. “I’ve always been…” 

Worry fills Dean’s throat as he watches Cas withdraw from him. That sense of _wrongness_ comes crawling back up his throat. Cas doesn’t shrink away from his anger; Cas meets him head-on until the vehicles of their rage are smashed into a thousand pieces on the highway of their frustrations. 

If Dean wants to get through to Cas, he’s going to need to choose a method other than anger. 

“Cas, I’m running out of time. I can’t...whatever you’re doing, whatever’s doing this to you, I keep losing you and it takes me longer and longer to find you. And if I can’t get to you in time--” 

“This is just a dream.” Cas’ eyes flick to Dean. In them is a quiet plea for Dean to agree with him, for Dean to make this all fade away into nothing. 

Bewildered, Dean pulls away. In all the years he’s known Cas, he’s never known him to react to a problem with anything less than gritty determination. Cas doesn’t run from his problems; he attacks them head-on, smashing into obstacles with a bull-headed single-mindedness that Dean loves as much as he fears. Denial is something new, something that he has to recalibrate his mind to comprehend. 

“Cas, buddy, you’re pretty deep in it now, but you’re...This isn’t a dream.” Dean puts every ounce of reassurance into his voice that he can. Sell the bit, get Cas to trust him, and then, when they’re both conscious at the bunker, he’ll beg Cas’ forgiveness. “Me and you and Sam and Jack, we’re what’s real--” 

He’s not expecting the swift glare from Cas, nor the sudden hostility which infiltrates every part of his posture. Dean’s heartrate kicks up, fear and excitement, because this...This is _Castiel_ looking at him. 

“That’s my kid,” Castiel says in a soft, dangerous voice. “Don’t you _dare_ bring my son into this.” 

_Not right, not right, not right_...The words beat a mantra in Dean’s chest, but he can’t stop, not when he’s this close, not when there’s even a shred of a chance that he might be able to reach Cas. 

“Cas, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, but you have to believe me--Whatever you’re seeing, whatever’s around you? _They’re not real.”_ Dean puts every ounce of conviction into his voice. He has to make Cas understand, has to make him see that whatever world he’s in while he’s not with Dean...It’s just a fantasy. “Me,” Dean says, hitting his own chest for emphasis, “and Sam, and our Jack? Us together? That’s what’s real. Whatever you might think, whatever you’re being told--”

It’s not working. Dean can tell that from the look on Cas’ face. Whatever this place is, it’s gotten its hooks into him, deep. Any trust or affection that Dean might have traded on is gone, given all to…

Dean makes a determined effort Not to Think About It. 

“Cas, don’t you remember _anything_?”

The question is torn from a place deep inside him, somewhere close to the heart. It’s presented to Cas, ragged, ugly, and bleeding, in hopes of finally jogging something loose. 

Cas shakes his head and steps away, leaving Dean with nothing but a handful of torn hopes. 

This time Dean can feel the edges of the dream fading away, he can see the darkness creeping up on him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep on until I find you, I won’t give up, I’ll keep look--” 

And then Cas is gone. 

The air is closer this time. More menacing. Dean gets the impression that he’s under observation by an entity that does not approve of his presence. The skin on the back of his neck crawls and the tiny hairs on his arm raise in warning. 

“I just want Cas,” Dean tries, arms lifted wide. The angel blade thumps against his hip as he takes a single step forward. “You know that he doesn’t belong here.” 

A thin breeze, subtle as a knife, drifts past. It cuts against Dean’s cheek. “This isn’t where he’s supposed to be.” 

Somewhere, in the blankness, a vast something stirs. Dean can feel it gathering its forces, like clouds stacking up atop one another in preparation for a storm. He swallows, almost certain that he’s not ready to face this. 

Perhaps the clock ticking away was never counting down Cas’ time. 

Dean takes one step backwards. “He doesn’t belong here,” he says again, but his voice is quieter, more pleading. “He belongs with his family.” The air pushes in around him, dense and overwhelming. It’s like a hand over his face, almost smothering him, but Dean continues, says the truth that’s closer, the one that threatens to destroy everything if he ever voices it aloud to the harsh light of day. “He belongs with _me._ ” 

Brightness explodes across his field of vision. Dean instinctively ducks before he realizes that he’s not under attack. Dazed, he looks through the cage of his arms at the harsh fluorescent lights bursting into life above him. Rows upon rows of lights flicker on, revealing a warehouse with walls so pristinely white that they’re blinding. 

Dean’s head whips from side to side as he searches for a foe, but he finds nothing. There’s nothing at all in the warehouse, at least not at first glance. When he blinks, the once spotless floor is cluttered with bodies. Blood spatters cover the floor, the walls...Dean swallows hard at the sight of the carnage. 

Whatever nightmare either his or Cas’ brain managed to dredge up, one fact remains clear: he shouldn’t be here. 

He slides his foot backwards, intent on escaping as suddenly as he arrived, but his heel comes into contact with something solid, but all too giving. Dean whirls around, only to trip over another body that seemingly sprouted from nowhere. He goes down hard, palms and knees stinging from the impact, and muffles a curse as he rolls over. He pushes at the shoulder of one of the bodies around him, only to come face to face with--

This time he does retch, bile coming up hot and sour to be spat out and mingle with the blood--His blood, he realizes, with another sick little lurch of horror. He’s looking into an exact replica of his face, down to the spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His expression is caught between betrayal and pain as his eyes stare sightlessly ahead. 

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck--” 

He would keep going, except his attention is seized by a sound that he would know anywhere--the mushy, liquid sound of fists hitting a body. 

Dean gets up onto shaky legs and works his way as fast as he can through the forest of bodies--they’re all him, oh christ, oh god, they’re all him, all dead in varying ways, jesus christ, what the hell is this place--a snapped neck, a slit throat, countless stab wounds litter his torso--

A flash of movement catches his attention. 

Dean turns to it, somehow already knowing what he’ll see, but needing the confirmation of it anyway. 

Even though he’s already mentally prepared for the sight, it still takes a long moment before his heart accepts what he sees. 

Castiel, Angel of the Lord Castiel, advances on a hapless figure, blade in hand. Even if he couldn’t hear the small pleas, Dean would recognize the man that Castiel is stalking. But he can recognize his own voice, high and terrified, which makes it worse, so much worse. 

“Cas, this isn’t you! Cas, please, you don’t want to do this!” 

Dean’s stomach turns as he watches himself stretch out an imploring hand to Cas and then watches Cas snap his bones like kindling. His own shriek rakes its fingernails down his back and if he could, then Dean might actually cry. There’s no pity in Castiel, no mercy as he uses his hold on Dean’s arm to twist his body around. The blade plunges efficiently into Dean’s chest. Even from far away, Dean can hear his own death rattle. 

Once the body goes limp, Castiel tosses it away like an afterthought. 

If Dean dared, then he would vomit. 

In all the years that he and Cas have known each other, Cas never told him about this, never...What twisted world has Dean found himself in, where Cas murders him as easily as breathing, maybe even more so? 

Everything becomes clear when he sees the second figure detach itself from the wall to join Castiel. Even though he only met her a handful of times, Dean recognizes the knife-sharp creases in Naomi’s pantsuit, as well as her brisk, brutal patterns. 

“Swift, ruthless, effective.” Dean sees her eyes scan over the warehouse and he quickly ducks behind a column to avoid detection. “No hesitation.” He dares to peek out from his hiding place, just in time to see Naomi place a cold hand against Cas’ cheek. He doesn’t make any indication that he feels the contact. “You’re fixed, Castiel, ready for duty once more.” 

Dean shivers at the look in Cas’ eyes. They’re cold and alien, devoid of all the depth of feeling that Dean _knows_ Cas is capable of. He’s only seen Cas look like that…

The crypt. _What have you done to me, Naomi?_

This was what Naomi did to Cas. This…

Horror settles over Dean as he looks around once more. How many corpses litter the floor? Hundreds? Thousands? How many times did it take before Cas struck the final blow? How many times before he stopped flinching? How many times did Naomi dig her fingers into Cas’ brain and rearrange the pieces, like a child rebuilding a Lego set? 

How long did Cas refuse to hurt him, even a facsimile of Dean, before he was no longer given the option to refuse? 

Dean needs to save him. He needs to pull Cas away from this nightmare, out of whatever pit he’s sunk himself into, and get him back to the bunker, back to his _family,_ back _home--_

Dean slides out of his hiding spot, barely daring to breathe. If he’s careful then he can dart among the corpses and make it to the door. He takes one step, then another, and releases a slow breath, allowing himself a moment of relief. Caught in the open, he doesn’t realize his mistake until he sees the cold, sadistic smile spread across Naomi’s face. 

“A true chance to test yourself, Castiel.” She gestures with the clipboard to where Dean stands, alone, in the middle of an ocean of bodies. “Kill Dean Winchester and you’ll be free.” 

Those emotionless eyes turn to him, and it’s not right, it’s not _Cas--_

Not Cas is going to kill him. 

And even though he knows that it’s worse than pointless, Dean finds himself scrambling away, hands held out in supplication to a relentless Castiel as he stalks forward. “No, Cas, I swear, this isn’t what you think it is--I’m not real, none of this is _real--”_

Castiel never stops, and in a fight between a human and an angel, the angel wins. Always. 

Castiel’s fingers close around the collar of Dean’s shirt, yanking him close, and from the second that Dean saw him, he always knew that Cas was going to be the death of him, but he just thought...He thought…

“Cas, please. Please. I...I…” 

Three words falter and die on his lips as Cas raises the blade above his head--

Dean drops to the ground, blessedly whole, blessedly _alive._

He pants as he runs his hands over his body, just to be sure. When he’s satisfied that there are no gaping wounds, he takes in a deep breath and tries to compose himself. 

He needs to get out of here. He needs to get Cas and get the hell out of here before one or both of them gets hurt beyond the point of no return. Now the only problem becomes finding Cas. 

It’s with no small amount of trepidation that he looks around and takes in his surroundings. The anxiety fades from his blood as he scans over the quaint houses, the carefully maintained yards, the small shrubs dotting the driveways. He’s standing in the middle of the suburbs during Halloween. Even if the giant cartoon cat and witch decorations weren’t enough to tip him off, the numerous children in costume would be a hint. 

Dean doesn’t understand. So far every time he’s met Cas, there’s been a visceral memory attached to the scene, but this...If this is hearkening back to a case that he and Cas worked, he doesn’t remember it. This is breaking tradition and logic, which leaves Dean wrong-footed and nervous. In his experience, every time a dream breaks logic, it doesn’t bode well for him. 

He’s looking around the houses for any type of a clue when he finally catches it. In one house’s driveway, the Impala sits, polished to a gleaming shine. 

Dean’s heart jumps at the implications. 

He walks on numb legs towards the house, only to duck behind a tree when the front door of the house opens. Everything makes sense, in a terrible, awful sort of way, and Dean can only watch, heart torn to shreds, as all of the puzzle pieces finally slot into place. 

He understands now why Cas didn’t want to leave. 

Claire and a young boy that has to be Jack walk out the front door, hand in hand. A bright sunny smile sits on Claire’s face, natural as breathing, and Jack...Jack laughs like the child that he was never allowed to be. Watching them, with identical fond expressions, from the doorway of the house, are Cas and...Cas and…

A lump builds in Dean’s throat. It grows in size until he can’t swallow around it; he can barely breathe around it. It’s like eleven years are reaching out and slapping him across the face, like every one of his worst fears has manifested and been found impotent, but it’s too late to save him.

For so long he’s been terrified of what will happen if Cas discovers what Dean buries deep enough to hide from himself. And now, seeing his arm slung so casually over Cas’ shoulder, seeing the way that Cas leans into Dean’s touch, one hand absently resting on Dean’s chest...A knife twisted in his chest would hurt less. Dean would know. 

He watches as Cas pats at Dean’s chest before reaching for the door. He and Dean wave one last time at Claire and Jack before they shut the door. 

It’s child’s play for Dean to duck out of Claire and Jack’s sight and creep closer to the house. Every instinct he has tells him to run away, to wake up, but like a moth to the flame, he can’t help but look at what he doesn’t have, what he’ll never have. 

Cas and Dean are in front of the picture window. They watch Claire and Jack make their way down the street. Dean swallows hard as he sees the way that Cas’ arms are wrapped around Dean’s waist and how Cas ducks his face into the nook of Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean’s too far away to see what Cas says to Dean, but he does see his face split open in a laugh. He watches himself crane his head back until his lips meet Cas’ in a kiss. It looks comfortable. It looks routine. 

It looks perfect. 

Dean’s own stomach tightens as he watches Cas’ hands stroke over Dean’s stomach. Their path is unmistakable. And instead of pushing him away, instead of retreating to the farthest known point of the universe, the Dean in the window covers Cas’ hands and aids them on their path. 

Cas starts to walk backwards, pulling Dean with him. Heart in his throat, Dean watches them move. They’re so…

He could have had that. If he’d wanted it, he could have reached out his hand and had that. 

Dean turns away from the window. 

He needs to get the fuck out of here. 

“Cas!” he shouts, uncaring of how many eyes turn to him. “Cas!” Mothers yank their children closer to them; they’re not real anyway. What’s real is him and Cas, what’s real is the ever-increasing weight of the knowledge pressing down on his chest-- _All this time, he could have had that with Cas._ “Castiel! I know that you can hear me, you son of a bitch! You don’t get to do this!” Cas doesn’t get to hide in this perfect world while Dean struggles and bleeds in the real one. 

“Cas! Castiel! Cas, I’m going to keep look--”

\---

“--ing for you until I get you to come back with me!” 

Dean’s words fall again into an empty room, but this time, instead of cold, he’s greeted by a wave of heat and smoke. Blinking to clear the sudden influx of tears, Dean stumbles backwards. When his vision clears enough, he squints at the center of the room. 

A perfect circle of fire burns in the middle of an abandoned room. 

Memories rush in--Cas, standing in the middle of that circle, Dean, lobbying so desperately for his innocence, only to find out that Sam and Bobby were right. Cas, looking away from him for the first time. The crushing weight of betrayal from the person whom he expected it least. 

What the hell...what kind of dream is this, what kind of world are he and Cas trapped in, where they keep visiting these random, awful moments? Some of the worst moments in Dean’s life, and Cas’ subconscious seems determined to take him on his own private tour of them. 

“The hell is going on here, Cas?”

“I don’t...This is all just a dream.” Cas’ voice is thin, his certainty wavering. “I don’t know why I keep…” 

Hope pushes at Dean as he watches Cas’ brow furrow in confusion. He gets the feeling that they’re dangling on a precipice. All it will take is the smallest of pushes and Cas will finally understand. 

“It’s just a dream,” Cas says with certainty, and Dean could howl with frustration. 

“You don’t believe that.” 

“It’s just a dream. Nothing else makes sense!” 

“Cas. Please.” He needs to get to Cas, to touch him. When he does, maybe he can shake some sense into him, maybe his touch will jar Cas out of whatever fantasy he’s caught in. He just needs to close that distance between them. “You know that this isn’t right. You know that you’re not supposed to be here.” 

Dean watches Cas parse the words--so similar to his usual self that it makes his chest ache. He watches as surety settles on Cas’ face and for the first time since he found Cas in this hellish place, Dean allows himself to hope. 

“You’re right. I’m not supposed to be here.” Dean breathes a sigh of relief. They can finally leave. They can finally go _home--_ “Whatever...this is, I’m not supposed to be here.” 

Cas pulls away, eyes flickering towards the door. The door which Dean can’t reach except to walk through literal fire. 

“Cas,” Dean tries, ready to beg, ready to plead. Anything he can do to just get Cas to _stay--_

“No.” Cas’ voice falls like a death knell, mingling with the snap and crack of the fire. “I’m not coming back here. To any of this. I don’t care--therapy, whatever it takes. I’m not coming back here. This isn’t...I belong with my husband.” Cas meets his eyes like a challenge, and Dean reads the message in them well enough-- _The husband that you aren’t. That you’ll never be._ “With our children. With my _family._ Not with _you._ ” 

Dean wonders if Cas knows how much those words hurt. If that’s why he chose them. 

Or if Cas is really so far gone in his fantasy world that he actually believes them. 

“Cas, please, you have to stay, you have to just _listen_ to me, please Cas, I can’t...I need you, Cas, _please--”_

Cas turns his back on him as the fire is extinguished. When Dean looks up again, Cas is gone. 

Without the fire, the room plunges into frigid temperatures. The walls close around him. Dean doesn’t think that it’s a hyperbole. The room is smaller now than when he first entered. Soon it’ll disappear altogether. He should leave. He should walk out now and try to figure out a way to save Cas. 

What’s the point? Cas doesn’t want to be saved. 

He shouldn’t blame Cas. Dean’s been stuck in the middle of fantasy lands before. The first time, in the djinn dream, it had taken nothing short of a knife to his own chest to get him to leave. He understands how well the dream of a perfect life can seduce. 

But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t rip him apart to know that Cas prefers a fake version of himself to the real thing. 

He can’t stop thinking about the look of happiness on Cas’ face as he nuzzled into the fake Dean. How content he looked, as though he had not a care in the world. And how easily the other Dean had molded himself around Cas. How easily he’d laughed. 

An idea springs to mind. 

Dean runs out of the room, already bellowing for Cas. 

He hadn’t thought that it would work. 

This dream has been a tricky thing to control thus far. He still doesn’t understand the logic of it, but he’s here, standing outside the house that he recognizes as Cas’. There’s no sign of the Impala, which means that Cas is alone. 

Guilt lies heavy on his shoulders as he stands in front of the door. For a second, his hand raises to knock, but he drops it before he can go through with the action. 

After all, this is his house. 

Dean squares his shoulders and enters. He tries to make himself soft, tries to make himself kind. He tries to become everything that he isn’t, everything that he saw, and everything that Cas wants. 

When he finds him, Cas is cooking. Cas is standing in front of the stove and cooking, like he does it every day. Dean’s already torn heart rips just a little more. 

“Hey babe.” Cas twists, his body language open and inviting. Clearly, Dean is meant to step into the open spaces he’s creating, but he can’t bring himself to fill that part of his role. Not yet anyway. A small frown of discontent appears on Cas’ face, but it fades almost as soon as it appears. “I thought you were picking Jack up from soccer practice?” 

Dean’s heart clenches. For one, wild second, he thinks about what could be if he just stayed here. The suburban dream, taking their kids to soccer practices and college tours, having a glass of wine at dinner, holding hands over dessert and falling asleep to the background noise of cable TV. He looks at Cas, poking at the garlic with a wooden spoon, and _wants_. 

“Got a call from one of the other parents. They’re going to drop him off on their way.” Dean remains apart, terrified of what he’ll do if he gets too close. Terrified of how much he wants. 

Would Cas try cooking for him in the bunker? Would Cas ever be this relaxed, bare toes tapping against their kitchen floor? 

Dean can’t help himself. Gravity always takes hold, and any room that houses both him and Cas will always see him eventually shifting to Cas’ orbit. “You’re cooking?” tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. 

Cas gives him a familiar scathing look. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. I’m not hopeless.” Despite his assurances, there’s a defensive tone in his voice. Dean hides his hurt behind a smile; some things never change. 

Cas smiles at him then, and it’s an open grin, one that invites Dean to partake in the joke. It’s a look shared between partners. He’s never gotten that from Cas. There have been a few that have come close, but nothing they’ve ever shared has had this level of thoughtless intimacy. No, their looks always come with layers attached to them, which if peeled away would reveal the bright red, raw center of a thousand problems that neither of them wants to deal with. This, Cas’ half-grin, the easy, unthinking turn he does, trusting that Dean will shift around him...It’s sweet in a way that Dean thought only existed in the movies. “Right,” Dean murmurs, his enchantment warring with the howl of agony caught in his chest. “I just...it’s a good look for you.” 

He wants to stay here, wants to tease Cas about his cooking, wants to help their kids do their homework. Wants to see the heat in Cas’ eyes as he turns and his eyes take in the whole of Dean’s body. 

“Don’t distract me. Later.” There’s promise in Cas’ voice, hot and thick and unmistakable. Dean’s cheeks heat. His blush only grows when Cas drags his eyes over him once more, making sure that Dean feels their every movement. A high whine rises in his throat, along with dozens of pleas that Dean would rather die than voice, and he smothers them all in a rasping cough behind his hand. 

The moment is broken when Cas leans over the pan to give it a good sniff. “Is the garlic aromatic yet?” 

Dean retreats to the safe spot of cooking. “You have to wait until it browns a little.”

A line appears between Cas’ brows as he looks down at the pan. “Is this brown?” He glances over at where Dean leans against the wall. “Come here.” 

To be that close...to be that close and not be allowed to touch...Dean wants to refuse. He should refuse. But Cas also thinks that he’s his husband, and from what Dean has seen, Cas’ husband would never refuse a request such as this. 

He stands just out of reach, near enough to look at Cas’ work, but not near enough to tumble into temptation. “Little bit more,” Dean murmurs. Unable to stop himself, he reaches for the spoon in Cas’ hand. “You have to...Here.“ 

He means to take the spoon from Cas. If they were in the world that makes sense, then Cas would relinquish whatever he was holding the second that he felt Dean’s fingers. But this is Cas’ world, so Cas twists his fingers to tangle with Dean’s. Dean’s heart thumps painfully against his sternum. 

“You want to help?” 

Cas asks the question like he already knows the answer. 

And in the end, Dean does as well. 

“Yeah, all right.” He steps in closer, crowding against Cas’ back. It’s too close, but Cas doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, Cas relaxes back into him, forcing Dean to take some of his weight. Dean adjusts easily. He dares to dip his head down to the curve of Cas’ skull to scent his hair. Cas hums. The sound rumbles through Dean’s chest. 

“I’ve missed you,” Cas says. 

Dean barely manages to control his startle. For a second, hope flares wildly in his heart— _Cas remembers—_ but then he realizes. Cas misses his husband. 

The moment of indecision costs him when Cas turns around and wraps his arms around Dean’s neck. His fingers brush along the fine hairs at the back of Dean’s neck, and Dean bites his lip to stifle the whimper that threatens to leave his lips. 

The tip of Cas’ tongue darts out to sweep over his lower lip. Dean watches the motion, mesmerized by the swift flick. Long buried memories roar to the forefront of his mind, and his lips tingle with possibility. “Yeah.” He’s breathless, undone. “Yeah, I’ve missed you too.” The admission leaves a hollow place in his chest that hurts too much if he looks at it any way but sideways. 

Cas’ fingernails scrape over the soft skin just underneath the collar of his shirt. A moan claws its way out of Dean’s throat before he has a chance to suppress it. Every molecule in his body yearns toward Cas, even as Dean’s brain screams at him to stop. He can’t...His Cas wouldn’t. His Cas _doesn’t._

But this Cas would and does, and also apparently has Cas’ kind of crouching nerd, hidden badass type of strength. Cas’ fingers guide his head to the perfect angle and if Dean were to lean in just a little more, then…

“You’re still so beautiful,” Cas says, not a shred of irony in his voice, and that’s…

Dean is so going to hell. 

Cas’ lips are soft underneath his and slick from the constant flick of his tongue. Dean’s breath stutters in his chest as Cas hums into his mouth. Cas kisses with a rhythm that takes Dean a moment to match, but when he does--

Soft, helpless whimpers fall from his mouth into Cas’, but Cas doesn’t hesitate, not even for a second. He just tilts his head a little to the side and then there’s the swipe of that tongue against _his_ lower lip. Dean didn’t think that it was possible to die from a kiss, but hell, he’s been wrong before. He can’t control the way that his hands clutch at Cas, or how his fingers twist in Cas’ hair. 

After another few moments, Cas gentles their kiss with short nips and pecks to Dean’s lips. Dean can feel Cas’ smile against his lips.

How has he managed to survive all these years without having this? 

How did he ever give this up? 

Why? 

“Cas. Oh fuck. Cas.” 

He’ll stay here forever. He’ll happily die within this dream if it means that he can spend these last hours of his life with Cas, trading kisses over the stove. He kisses Cas again, reveling in the feel of Cas’ mouth going pliant against his. 

When Cas pulls away, it’s like he rips away part of the sky with him. “Much as I’d love to grab a quickie, I need to finish this.” Cas is talking. Why is Cas talking when they could so easily be kissing? Dean crowds against Cas, pressing a swift, desperate kiss to the bolt of Cas’ jaw. Cas lets him, even tilts his head and hums as Dean’s lips caress his skin, but then stops him with a firm hand planted on his chest. “Dean, I’m serious. Claire’s bringing Kaia over for dinner and I want to make sure that everything is ready for them.” 

The names function like a cold glass of water to the face. Dean’s original purpose comes crashing down on him once more, and with it, the crushing knowledge of what he has to do. 

“Cas. Don’t you...Don’t you want…”

When he says it, everything is going to change. This idealistic, halcyon existence, shattered into a thousand jagged pieces on the ground. Cas isn’t stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination. He’s going to realize that something is wrong. 

“Dean.” Cas places a soft hand to his cheek. “Dean, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”

Dean closes his eyes, unable to look at Cas as he shatters his belief. “Don’t you want to just...to just leave? Get out of here?”

“Dean, I don’t...What happened today?”

Confusion is better than rage, which is what Dean was expecting. However, he’s still not getting the concept. 

Dean forces a laugh that scrapes his throat on its way out.“Nothing. Nothing happened today. I just...You’ve got to want a vacation, right? A break from all of this? I mean, this apple-pie life, this suburb thing...this isn’t for you.” 

Cas tries to pull away, but Dean holds fast. Cas was trapped before he ever knew that escape might be an option that he would want. “Dean, let me go.” He hides it well, but Dean hears the shred of fear creeping into Cas’ voice. “Whatever’s bothering you, we can talk about it.” 

That startles a brittle laugh out of Dean. It splinters when it hits the cold air. Both Dean and Cas wince. “Talk about it?” The novelty of the situation is astounding to him. “Since when do we do that?”

“Because we’re in a relationship and we’re raising two children, which means that we have to _talk_ about these things and not...not…” 

Dean watches as the cogs finally turn in Cas’ mind, as he takes the separate pieces and combines them in a way that makes sense. 

“Get out of here.” When Cas speaks again, it’s low and deadly. If Dean tries hard enough, he can almost scent a whiff of ozone in the air. “You’re not welcome here. This is my _home.”_

The words cut deep into the vulnerable part of him. “No, Cas. No it’s not.” Dean knows that the grip he has on Cas is too tight, but he doesn’t let up. Not now, when victory is so close that he can almost taste the metallic tang of it on his lips. “This isn’t your home, Jack and Claire aren’t your kids, and I’m not…” Pain lances through him at the truth of the next words. “I’m not your husband.” 

Saying it aloud hurts worse than he thought it would. 

“This is the dream.” He shakes Cas to slam the words home. Cas is almost limp in his arms, his eyes wide and shocked. “Don’t you get it? Out there in the real world, where I am, you have people that are counting on you. They need you Cas, _they’re_ what’s real! You don’t get to stay here, playing house for a bunch of pretend people!” 

_Please come home Cas, I need you, I_ want _you…_

“You’re insane. I’m not...This is my _home_. I have a husband, I have two children, I have a job that I love. I’m never--” Cas pauses and for just a moment, something celestial and furious flashes behind his eyes. 

“I’m never coming back.” 

The words hit Dean like a punch. 

He barely listens as Cas continues. “I’m not... This is where I belong. Claire’s going to school in a few months and Jack’s just starting soccer... Dean’s expanding the garage and I’m getting promoted to Head Nurse…”

“Goddammit Cas, that’s not real!” Spurred on by anger and fear, Dean shakes Cas hard enough that his teeth audibly clack together. “None of this is! Haven’t you always wondered how everything’s perfect for you? How everything just seems to fall in place? Didn’t you ever think that maybe it was too good to be true?”

Cas’ lip curls in defiance. “It’s no sin to have a good life.” 

A low, inarticulate cry of anger winds out of Dean’s lips. “It’s a fucking fairytale! Real life is hard and painful and bloody. It’s not this...this white-washed fucking bullshit!”

How can Cas be this stupid? How can Cas, after everything that Dean’s done for him, do this?

How can Cas be this _selfish?_

Anger settles in Dean and solidifies around him like a shell. “I don’t care what you want.” He spits the words out like razors, hoping that they draw half as much blood from Cas as Cas has managed to pull from him. “I’m dragging you back if I have to beat the shit out of you to do it.” 

Castiel will understand. Castiel knows that, when the stakes are high, sometimes regrettable actions must be taken. 

But this Cas isn’t his--This Cas’ eyes widen in fear and indignation before he tries to yank away from Dean’s grasp. 

Something rips into a thousand pieces in Dean’s chest as Cas struggles against him. It’s not the smooth, precision manufactured movements of a being who was a warrior long before continents were formed. It’s the messy, haphazard struggles of a desperate man, someone who might have been in a fight when he was in middle school but hasn’t even bothered to swing a punch in a bar since then. It’s pathetic. Hands slapping against his chest, huge jerks of his upper body, a twist that Dean sees coming from a mile away. The dissonance bubbles until it’s vicious as poison in his veins.

“Get off me!” Cas’ voice is high and panicked. “Dean, Dean, please, please let me go, please let me stay, I want to stay--” 

“I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs. Regret clogs thick in his throat, gets thicker when he twists Cas’ arm behind his back and Cas yelps in pain. 

What has Cas turned him into? What has he turned Cas into? 

Is any of this right? 

“God, I’m so sorry, Cas.” 

Cas sags bonelessly back into Dean, arm still twisted at a brutal angle behind his back. His empty eyes stare at the ceiling. Dean catches the swift bob of his throat and hears the hitch of emotion in his breathing. But worse yet is the shine of the single tear that leaks out the corner of Cas’ eye and winds down his cheek. 

“Please.” Cas asks without any expectation of reprieve, voice flat and hopeless. “Please, just let me go.” 

“I can't.” Dean presses his cheek against Cas’ hair. “I’m sorry, Cas, but I can’t.” 

Even though it’s killing him, even though it’s ripping him apart to see Cas like this, in the end, Dean can’t, Dean _won’t,_ give Cas up. 

He feels the tension race through Cas’ body, feels Cas gulp in a lungful of air, but before Cas has a chance to scream, Dean bellows out, **_“SAM!”_ **

And then he watches as the world disappears. 

Dean bolts upright, gasping for air. Coming out of a dreamroot sleep is always brutal, like being shoved off the top of a bunk bed. He scrubs at his mouth, trying to rub away the lingering taste. 

His eyes immediately find Cas in the next bed. Cas is still trapped in motionless sleep, but he was deeper than Dean. It’s going to take him a second to claw his way back to awareness. 

Sam’s face shoves its way into Dean’s field of vision. “Hey, you all right?” 

Dean pushes at his brother’s shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine, get off me. Jeez.” He looks at Cas again, still, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. “Has he done anything?”

“No,” Jack says. His eyes close as his fingers touch Cas’ forehead. “But I can feel...something.” Dean sees the furrow of worry on Jack’s forehead, ignores it. He forces a relentless sort of optimism on himself, the kind that would feel painful if it were called anything else. 

He brought Cas back. He knows he did. In a few minutes, Cas is going to wake up and everything is going to be fine. He’ll give Cas a hard time and Cas will look at him with his patented pissy expression and then Jack will make a joke and Sam will roll his eyes and Eileen will tell everyone to knock it off and everything will be fine. 

“Did it work?” Sam asks, his eyes flicking back and forth between Dean, Jack and Cas. 

“I don’t know.” Dean swallows and clenches his fists. “I don’t know. He didn’t…” Dean bites back what he was going to say. He’s not ready yet, to tell Sam about what he saw--the life that Cas’ mind managed to build, the horror of the warehouse. 

He’ll never be ready to talk about the Impala parked next to an abandoned house, about those few minutes snatched out from underneath an apocalypse. 

“There were problems,” Dean settles for saying. 

And because Sam can never leave anything alone, he immediately asks, “What kind of problems?” 

Dean rakes his fingers through his hair. He can’t handle this right now; not when Cas is still unresponsive. “I don’t...Just problems, Sam. Jesus.” 

His head hurts. His whole body hurts, but he concentrates on his head. Concentrating on anything else would be too much at the moment. 

Cas had looked so goddamn happy in that kitchen. Dean hadn’t really known that Cas could smile like that, wide and gummy, eyes sparkling. He hadn’t known that when he’s truly happy, Cas’ whole body relaxes into a grin, like even his goddamned elbows are in on the joke. He hadn’t known that that kind of joy could find a place on Cas’ face. 

He’s not going to allow himself to think about the way that Cas’ body folded into his, or about the slick heat of Cas’ mouth. If he thinks about that, then he’ll never stop. 

His thoughts are interrupted by Jack’s bright cry of “Cas!” 

Dean’s eyes fly to Cas’ bed. The angel in question sits up slowly, eyes flicking around the room, never settling on any one place for longer than a few seconds. Finally, he meets Dean’s eyes. Dean’s heart has just enough time to hammer at the confines of his ribs before Cas’ eyes slide away. 

Jack’s grin could dim the sun as he reaches out to Cas, no doubt to assess the levels of damage. All four of them--Dean, Sam, Eileen, and Jack--freeze when Cas flinches away from Jack’s touch. 

“Dean?” Jack calls, eyes darting nervously to him. 

Dean tries to put on a good face for Jack, but the look he gets from Cas sends a bolt of foreboding through his body. It settles, hard and mean, in the pit of his belly. Something’s not right. He can taste it in the air. Cas sits up and looks around the room like he’s never seen it before. 

Something is wrong. 

“Cas?” Sam must realize it too; he’s using the soft voice that he always uses with victims and their families. “You alright, Cas? You back with us?” 

For one eternal second, the world hangs on Castiel’s answer. 

Then, with a final sigh, Cas delivers the death blow. 

“I don’t know.” He locks eyes with Dean, speaking directly to him. “I’ve never met any of you before in my life.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	3. part three

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


For a moment, Cas’ words hang in the air. 

Then they hit. 

It’s Dean who reacts first. Cas catches a swift glimpse of his face before Dean turns his back on him. He’s not sure what to make of the expression on Dean’s face or the harsh  _ “Goddammit, Cas”  _ that he hears. 

Sam’s face wrinkles in confusion. “I don’t…” He looks to Eileen, who lifts her eyebrows in a shrug. “Cas, what are you talking about?” 

Panic and rage mingle within him until he’s molten underneath, ready to explode. “I don’t know you.” The words fall like stones in a calm lake. “I’m not supposed to be here.” 

Sam looks towards Dean. “Was this what you meant when you said that there were problems?” 

Dean turns back to face them. In the short span of seconds, he’s managed to school his face into something impenetrable. “I thought once he woke up he would be better,” Dean finally says. 

Sam blinks slowly, even as his hands are busily translating for Eileen. When he finishes, two sets of eyes stare at Dean. Cas watches the interplay, amazed at how these strangers are so similar and yet so different to those that he knows. It starts a dull ache in his chest, one that only grows worse as he watches Eileen shift closer to Sam. 

“Is it a djinn?” she finally asks. “Isn’t there an antidote?” 

Dean shrugs. “It didn’t feel like a djinn dream. Plus, you think that if he heard the truth,Cas would willingly stay asleep?” 

Dean’s eyes rest on him for a long moment. There’s something in that gaze, some meaning that Cas should be able to parse. 

He doesn’t want to. 

“Can I?” 

Cas looks to the teenager sitting at the end of the bed. There’s something about him that trips at his memory, but he shies away from that recognition and takes refuge in his ignorance and irritation. 

“Can you what?” He shifts further up the bed, putting a healthy distance between himself and the boy.

The teenager’s face falls in disappointment. “I want to try healing you,” the boy says. “Now that you’re awake I might be able to.” 

“What do you mean--” Cas looks down at the teenager’s fingers. There’s nothing which marks them as anything other than normal appendages. But he swears that he can feel warmth coming off of them. “Look, whatever New Age crap you’re peddling, I don’t want it.” 

He’s suffocating. There’s a noose around his neck, strangling him. His hands go to his neck and he falters once he finds a tie. He hasn’t worn a tie in years, except for hospital benefits. Why would he be wearing a full suit, along with the world’s ugliest trench coat? 

The teenager’s expression has shifted from disappointed to crestfallen. Cas almost feels guilty (the harsh look from Eileen tells him that he should embrace this feeling), but he can’t fathom the feeling. Not when his whole life is crumbling in front of him. 

Back in his real life, Claire is going to arrive, Kaia in tow, to find the dinner that he was making for them burning on the stove. She’ll search through the house, calling for him. Her voice will rise as she looks and doesn’t find him. Her nails will carve half-moon marks into Kaia’s wrist that will linger for long minutes afterwards as she tries to calm herself down. Kaia will wince but accept the pain, her hand moving in slow strokes over Claire’s back as she calls Dean. Dean will arrive, Impala throwing gravel as her tires spin in the driveway. (Jack will be tucked away on a playdate, taken to McDonald’s by a complacent mother, mollified by the statement of  _ There’s a family emergency.  _ Secure in her own family, she’ll watch her son and the interloper shove nuggets into their faces and smile benevolently at them.)

Dean, looking for him and not finding him. Dean, calling his phone, only to find it buzzing on the kitchen table. Claire’s calm cracking, fat tears winding their way down her face. Dean, holding on to a thin sliver of calm, unable to find his husband, unable to calm his daughter, unable to even hold his son for comfort. Dean’s frantic call to the police, where his husband describes his routine, emotionless officers interrogating his daughter, while his son asks questions that have no easy answers. His whole family torn apart--

A heartbroken wail builds in his throat and that’s when the boy presses his fingertips into Cas’ temple. 

_ The first time he saw Dean across the bar--Dean’s cocky little grin as he tossed back a shot--Their first kiss in the dark corner of the bar, a little drunk and a little fumbling, at least until their heads tilted the right way and then it changed, became something hot and possessive, and afterward Cas stared dumbfounded at Dean’s lips and thought  _ I never want to kiss anyone else for the rest of my life _ \--the first night they’d spent together, Dean’s hands soft and reverent on his skin, Cas’s hands and mouth hungry and greedy--Their wedding, where Sam had cried and even Balthazar looked a little teary--The first time he held Jack in his arms and examined his perfectly formed fingernails--The first time Claire had left the house and called out a casual “See you later, Pops”--Making dinner and the swift rush of pleasure when he realized that Dean was home and he would have his husband all to himself for the next little while and then the bright awful flash of terror and loss as the imposter wearing his husband’s face attacked him and ripped him away from his life and family-- _

The golden haze lifts and the room shifts back into clear focus. It takes a moment longer for Cas’ head to stop spinning. He glares at the teenager, whose look of shock mirrors his own horror. “That’s...that’s  _ private _ \--” he hisses, twisting to his feet. He puts the bed between him and everyone else. “You have no right to any...that’s my  _ family,  _ which  _ he, _ ” he points an accusatory finger at Dean, “took me from.” 

Sam’s eyes perform an odd dance as they look back and forth between the teenager, Dean, and him. “Your family? Dean, what the hell...Jack, what the  _ hell _ is going on?” 

Cas’ stomach twists at the sound of the name. He looks at the teenager, automatically cataloguing the color of his hair, the shape of his eyes, the dip of his chin, the quiet way that he rearranges himself to be as unobtrusive as possible. He realizes that he’s looking for similarities and forces himself to stop. This boy can’t possibly be...His son is eight years old. He just started playing soccer. He likes to sing and he loves to help Dean in the shop and, apart from Sam and Eileen, he’s probably the fastest signer in the family. Sometimes, when insomnia dogs his steps, Cas will slip into his room and sit at the edge of his bed, just so he can watch his son’s sleep-slack face. 

The wrongness bubbles up in the back of his throat, tastes like bile. 

The boy--he’ll never be able to think of him as Jack--looks at Sam. He opens his mouth and closes it. For a moment, no doubt spurred by thoughts of his own Jack, Cas feels a spike of sympathy. 

“Jack.” The name, in Dean’s voice, is a command. 

The teenager looks at Cas. His face reflects an awful pity and an affection that shakes Cas to his core. “I’m sorry,” the boy-- _ Jack _ \--whispers. 

He directs the next words to Dean. “I don’t know how it happened, or how to explain it, but…” He lingers over the next words, causing Sam to cough delicately and Dean to snap  _ Spit it out already _ . Jack’s flinch is barely perceptible, but it’s almost enough to make Cas want to stand in front of him and take the brunt of the tongue lashing. 

Almost.

Jack swallows and looks down at his hands. His fingers twist nervously in his lap. It’s to that tangle that he directs his next words. 

“I looked for his grace to see if I could heal it, but it wasn’t there.” 

Dean’s eyes blink in a rapid Morse code. Sam and Eileen have a swift conversation before Eileen asks, “What are you trying to say?” 

Jack looks at her and lifts a single shoulder up in a hopeless shrug. “I can’t find Cas’ grace. It’s gone.” 

For a long moment, Dean thinks that Jack is lying to him. 

It wouldn’t be the first time that Jack’s lied, but it would be remarkably cruel of him. Then he sees Jack’s expression, the lost, helpless look in his eyes, and he knows. 

Jack isn’t lying. 

Sam is the first to recover; the cogs of his mind whirling to create new hypotheses and conclusions. “So what? Cas is human now?” He thinks for a moment. “Again?” 

“Maybe?” Jack lays his hands out on his knees. “I can feel where it  _ was _ . But even if someone took it, there would be traces left. Like a fingerprint? There would be places where it  _ was.  _ And I can’t feel any of those places.” 

Dean always acts before thinking. It’s his worst quality and one that’s gotten him in trouble multiple times. This time he can at least recognize that this is a bad idea, but he doesn’t know what else to do. 

A short vault over the bed puts him next to Cas, who barely has time to look in his direction before Dean has his hand across his forehead. “Get your hands off--” Cas snarls, but his indignation is lost as Dean cranes his head backwards. 

When Metatron took Cas’ grace, he slit his throat to do it. If someone else had managed to do that to Cas, there would be traces. There would be...Dean examines the unblemished golden skin. Other than a rough dusting of stubble, there’s nothing. 

Cas twists away from him. His eyes are ablaze, lips curled back from his teeth in clear warning. “Don’t you  _ ever  _ put your hands on me again.” His voice comes in a low, deadly snarl. 

“Cas, no one’s going to hurt you--” Sam begins, just in time for Dean to flick out his angel blade. 

Cas’ eyes widen at the sight of the silver sword in his hand. All of his posturing disappears as he backs away from Dean. Unfortunately for him, within a few steps his back hits the wall, leaving him no avenue of escape. And Dean is accustomed to cornering people who don’t want to be hurt. 

Sam’s voice echoes in his head, oddly distorted, like he’s speaking underwater. He can hear the clatter as Eileen shoves a chair aside to get to him. All unimportant. The only sound that matters is Cas’ voice, low and desperate, as he says, “Please. Please don’t.” 

Dean doesn’t listen. A swift flick of his wrist sends the tip of the blade across Cas’ arm. 

Dean waits for the high-pitched squeal of injured grace and for bright, blue-white light to start leaking from the wound, but it never comes. All he hears is Cas’ low cry of pain. All he sees is the slow blossom of blood across Cas’ coat sleeve. 

Dean stares at the wound, the languid drip of blood to the floor. His brain is sluggish; it refuses to understand the information given to it, even as Sam slams into him and snatches the blade from his hand. He lets it fall from numb fingers just before Sam’s fist collides with his jaw. Dull pain spreads from the point of contact, mingling with the rest of the pain filling his body. He doesn’t protest or struggle as Sam seizes him by his shirt collar and drags him away from Cas. Eileen takes his place, her deft fingers peeling away his coat sleeve to look at the wound. 

“What the hell are you thinking?” Sam roars into his ear. “He’s terrified, can’t you see that? Whoever that is...Whatever the hell is happening here--That’s not Cas!” 

Dean sags bonelessly against Sam’s chest. He didn’t believe it. Even with all the evidence in front of him, with everything pointing in the same direction, he hadn’t believed it. Not until he heard it in Sam’s voice. 

“It’s not Cas.” Sam’s arms wrap around his chest; they’re the only things that keep him from falling to the ground. “It’s not Cas.” 

And looking into those familiar blue eyes, narrowed in an unfamiliar expression of hate, Dean finally believes it. 

  
  


It takes a while to get everyone calmed down. 

Cas never quite gets to that point. He’s spitting mad and doesn’t care who knows it. He shouts at Eileen, at Sam, and even at Jack, demanding that they take him home. No amount of soothing or cajoling or even cold, hard rationalization will convince him that this  _ is  _ his home. That the life that he thought was his was never anything more than a fantasy. 

Sam hasn’t said shit yet about who Cas’ mystery husband is, but Dean knows that it’s coming. Probably not now, with Eileen’s hands trembling as she tries to sign, not with the thin line of red around Cas’ eyes, but later. Later, when it’s just the two of them, there’s going to be a whole, long conversation about just who Cas imagines he’s cuddled up to at night. 

Discretion being the better part of valor, Dean leaves at the first available opportunity. No doubt he’ll eventually be sought after, but for the moment, he’s going to take the first shred of good fortune that comes his way. He needs silence. His body craves it, same as it would oxygen or sleep. 

He winds up in the garage, sprawled out in the Impala’s backseat. One foot hangs out the open door while he balls up his flannel and uses it as a pillow. He stares at the familiar roof of the car, the one that he memorized when he was a child, and tries his very hardest to not think about anything. 

It’s impossible. 

His mind gleefully replays memories for him, like Cas’ expression of disgust whenever he caught sight of Dean. While none of them are presently in Cas’ good graces, he appears to have taken the brunt of Cas’ hatred. Which is fine. It’s no more than he deserves. 

He can’t stop thinking about that one moment in Cas’ made up kitchen, when Cas had leaned into him, confident that this was his husband and that all was right with the world. And Dean played right along, contorting himself into whatever shape that Cas needed him to be, all the while reveling in the illicit thrill it gave him. He’d known there was never any way the real Cas would allow this. That he’d never get to duck his head and run the tip of his nose through Castiel’s hair. 

He traces his thumb along the edge of his lower lip. Whenever his mind wanders, he returns to it--the way that Cas’ lips had slotted so easily against his, the soft noises that he’d pulled out of Cas and the ones that he’d given in return. Cas had smiled afterwards, small and content, like this was all that he could ever think to ask of the world. And Dean had let himself fall into that smile, let all of the yearning darkness that he tries so hard to keep at bay escape, just for a second. 

Part of him still wishes that he’d stayed there. 

He makes a fist and idly pounds it into the muscle of his thigh. Not as a punishment, more like a reminder. Cas’ smiles, Cas’ touch, Cas’ kiss--Those things aren’t meant for him. They’re for another Dean, a perfect version of himself that Cas concocted, one that doesn’t mind picking up the kids from soccer practice, one that would actually hug Cas in view of the entire street. One that doesn’t manage to single-handedly destroy everything he touches. 

His ministrations leave him with nothing but an aching thigh and sore knuckles. With effort, Dean straightens his fingers and lays them flat against his stomach. He focuses on breathing in through his nose, holding it, and then exhaling out through his lungs. It’s a trick Lisa taught him during the year he lived with her, when he would wake up yelling, half-convinced that he was still in Hell. That this time it was Sam on his rack. And this time there was no Cas to save him. 

He knows now, with the expertise of almost ten years hindsight, that he should never have gone to Lisa. Even back then, he’d known that knocking on her door wasn’t fair to her. He dumped a broken man on her step and she fixed him the best she could, but she never had all the tools to piece all of his fragments together properly. But she tried--she laughed, and she soothed, and she scolded, and she held her ground, and slowly, Dean became less of an impersonation and more of an original. 

And all the while he was doing that, Sam was wandering around without his soul and Cas was making deals with Crowley. 

“Goddammit,” Dean says, sitting up so quickly that for a moment he goes lightheaded. For old time’s sake, he pounds his fist into his thigh. “Goddammit.” 

His stomach churns, an unwelcome reminder that dreamroot doesn’t sit well by itself. 

It’s probably safe to leave. When he slipped out, Sam and Jack were already headed to the library in search of research--what for, Dean doesn’t know, but he admires their optimism. Eileen was ushering Cas away to his room. She wore the uniquely Eileen expression of infinite patience mingling with the strong desire to commit arson. All that means is that the kitchen should be deserted, which means Dean can probably sneak in, make a quick sandwich, and then escape back to his room. 

He sneaks past the library with no one the wiser. He almost pauses to hear the low, worried roll of Jack, Eileen, and Sam’s voices, but he forces himself to keep moving. He’s almost ready to congratulate himself as he walks into the kitchen, only to freeze. 

Standing forlornly amidst the cabinets and gadgets is Cas. 

Cas’ back is to Dean; he hasn’t been spotted yet. Desperate to escape, Dean turns, but fate is against him. The low scrape of his boot alerts Cas, who whips his head around, eyes narrowing when he sees Dean behind him. Butterfly to a corkboard, Dean is pinned in place by Cas’ gaze. From the moment that Cas burst through those barn doors and first leveled a glance at him, Dean’s been helpless against the power of his stare. 

Except it’s never had this much hostility in it before. 

“I was just coming to get a sandwich,” Dean says, stepping into the kitchen. It’s ridiculous that he should feel this guilty about going into his own kitchen. Especially when it’s Cas’ kitchen too. 

Cas says nothing, but something in the slump of his shoulders speaks of defeat. “Did you...were you hungry?” Dean asks. He can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice; he’s had years Cas turning down food. 

“You pulled me away from the dinner that I was making.” Cas’ voice is flat and merciless. “I haven’t eaten in a day.” 

The blow lands like a laser-guided missile. Dean flinches, but he doesn’t miss the vindictive light of satisfaction in Cas’ eyes. “Well, make yourself some damn food, then,” Dean says, his voice gruffer than usual. 

He watches the small twitch of Cas’ face, the way that his posture crumples, even though his shoulders stay straight and defiant. Dean steps further into the kitchen, though he makes sure to stay out of Cas’ reach. 

“I don’t know where anything is.” 

Dean doesn’t know how much the admission cost Cas. A lot, judging by the weak, defeated note in his voice. Against the industrial backdrop of the appliances, he looks small and helpless, standing in a kitchen that’s turned into a maze. 

“Utensil drawer is here. Plates are there. Glasses are there.” Dean points at each of the locations, but he doesn’t think that Cas fully grasps the information. “We have um...water and whiskey to drink. There might be beer in the fridge? When you’re done, just put your dishes into the sink; we’ll figure it out later.” 

His own appetite long since vanished, Dean goes to leave. 

“I’m not him.” 

It takes Dean the span of years to turn around. Cas never blinks as he looks at Dean, chin raised in defiance. 

“Whoever you think I am. The other Cas. I’m not him.” 

Dean takes a second to look at Cas, really look at him. Physically, they’re the same, but there are tiny differences. Just subtle things, things that someone who hasn’t spent the past eleven years of his life making a study of Cas would ever notice. Like the way that this Cas holds his shoulders. The dimness of his eyes. The human hesitance of his motions. 

“I know,” Dean says. 

Hearing his own voice say it aloud feels like a betrayal. Like he just threw the first handful of dirt on Castiel’s coffin. 

“I don’t know who he was, but I’m not...I can’t be him. Just like you can’t be my Dean.” 

“I know.” There’s a thousand things that Dean wants to say, but he swallows back the bitter, bile tasting words.

He already knows he can’t be the Dean that Cas wants. He saw what that Dean was able to give Cas and he knows he won’t be able to do the same. There’s no reason for him to torture himself. 

No reason at all. 

“What’s he like?” 

Cas freezes at the question. He’s caught in the middle of smearing mustard on a sandwich, and both the knife and the bread fall to the counter. The knife clatters against the stainless steel before it tumbles to the ground. 

“I just...Tell me about him.” 

Dean’s always pushed himself beyond the point of pain, into the clear space where nothing exists. It’s only later, when the burn and ache sets into his muscles, when he finds that he can’t walk without wobbling, that he realizes how far he went. He’s always liked that thin thread of hurt in the midst of his life; he doesn’t know how to live without it. He’s always liked finding things that hurt. 

Cas looks down at his hands. It isn’t until his thumb strokes over the empty ring finger on his left hand that Dean realizes what his focus is. “It’s not going to make things any better.” 

“No. It won’t. Tell me about him.” 

Dean’s heard the laugh that Cas lets out before--it’s a soft, mirthless sound, one that betrays more hurt than happiness. “I don’t know where...He loves his car and he loves Led Zeppelin. The first time Jack came down with a bad fever he stayed up all night rocking him. He sang ‘Hey Jude’ and ‘Simple Man’ until he got Jack to fall asleep. He likes to cook and he likes to bake, but he’ll eat any pie that the kids and I make for him. He talks during movies and chews with his mouth open and sometimes he drinks too much and he’ll piss on the toilet seat and use up all the hot water in the shower but he also makes pancakes for the kids on Saturday morning. Claire loves him and he cried the first time he held Jack and he’d walk through fire for them both. He taught Jack how to count and his favorite show is that awful Dr. Sexy. He’s got a temper but he’s fair and he works too much at the garage, but that’s just because he wants to do a good job--” 

Cas’ breath catches in his throat and it’s only then that Dean realizes his shoulders are shaking. “He’s the best man I could have dreamed of and you took me from him.” He turns to face Dean with glassy, red-rimmed eyes. “He’s going to come home and not know where I am, and have to deal with the kids, and he’s going to be so...” Cas bites viciously at his lower lip. “He’s my husband,” he finishes. 

There are tiny little glimmers of familiarity. At times, he can almost recognize himself in Cas’ description. But then Cas says the magic words-- _ He’s the best man that I could have dreamed of-- _ and it all comes crumbling down. 

“I know that you don’t remember. I know that you think...that you believe you had this other life. But you’re not…” Dean swallows as he tries to find the correct words. There’s no point in hurting an already bleeding man, but Cas needs to  _ know.  _ He needs to understand that he’s missed, no matter if he can’t actually hear Dean. They say that people in comas can hear their loved ones when they speak to them; why would this be any different? 

“Cas is my best friend. And he’s badass and he’s dorky and he’s the most reliable person...angel, whatever, that I know. And he likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and he has a weird thing with bees, and I think once he tried to talk Sam into getting a guinea pig for the bunker. He can’t knot a tie and he can’t cook worth a damn.” Dean inhales, trying to figure out how to encompass the enigma that is Cas. “He...he likes to watch true crime and nature documentaries and he’ll eat a pizza and drink a beer, even though he doesn’t need to; he just likes the routine. He makes really shitty coffee, but whenever he stays at the bunker, he’ll always make a fresh pot for me and Sam in the morning. And he...he never stays, but I always want him to and I never told him that.” 

Cas stares at him, that intense stare that Dean’s been in love with for years now. “Why not?” he finally asks. 

Dean shrugs. “There was never…” He pauses, starts over. “It was never the right time. There was always something else in the way.” 

Cas picks at an imaginary spot on the back of his hand, obviously wrestling with a decision. “There’s always something in the way. There’s never a right time. Dean asked me to marry him after he’d been up half the night puking because he ate some bad seafood.” 

And then, because it’s so easy to buy into the lie, Dean smiles and says, “That sounds like something I’d do,” and immediately Cas’ face shuts down. 

“It wasn’t you.” Cas slaps his hands on the counter and glares at him. Any semblance of warmth is lost. “I told you before--you’re not him.” 

And before Dean can say anything else, Cas sweeps past him, out of the kitchen.

Eileen had been the one to show Cas to ‘his’ room. 

He’s glad that it was her. He can’t look Jack in the eye and he still can’t forgive Sam for being privy to the plan to yank him out of his life. And Dean...He can barely stand to look at Dean for longer than a moment. 

Eileen opens the door to reveal a room that’s depressing in its emptiness. “This is Cas’ room,” she tells him, fingers signing nervously as her eyes dart away. “It’s his for whenever he stops by. He doesn’t sleep so…” At that, she’d wandered away, leaving Cas in the dark about what it meant that his doppelganger didn’t sleep. 

Apparently what it meant was that he was also allergic to any kind of personal possessions. The room is almost painfully bare, with a bed, chair, desk, and a sink in the corner. There are no pictures to adorn the walls, no knick-knacks on the desk, not even a toothbrush at the sink. 

Whoever Castiel was, it doesn’t look like he made much of an impact on much of anything. 

Cas pokes around the drawers out of simple human curiosity, just to see if there’s anything to find. Most of the drawers are empty, though there are a few plain shirts and a pair of jeans worn thin by use tucked away in the back. Not a lot of variety in the wardrobe, but still. Cas tugs at the tie that’s been slowly suffocating him for the better part of two hours. 

He slides out of the ugly brown trenchcoat and tucks it away on the hook at the back of the door. The suit jacket and accursed tie are next, followed by his slacks hitting the floor. He unbuttons the white shirt and tosses it on the chair with the rest of the suit. 

It’s not until he’s sliding into the jeans that he realizes who they belong to. They’re just a little too long and a little too small at the waist to be made for his body. 

Longing seizes him, so sharp that he ends up grasping at the wall to keep himself upright. He gasps around the pain and blinks furiously to clear away the tears that crowd his vision. 

_ Dean, with heat in his eyes as he woke up and saw Cas dressed in his boxers and one of his old band t-shirts, possessiveness clear in his touch as he ran his hands up Cas’ thighs and thumbed at the hem where Cas’ thighs strained against the material of his jeans, Dean’s satisfied sigh as Cas wrapped himself in one of his flannels, thumb stroking at the bone of Cas’ wrist-- _

“Fuck.” Cas grits the word out from between his teeth, clenching his fists hard enough that he worries that his fingernails might draw blood. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He’d never thought that longing could be a physical thing. That he could want Dean so badly that he can taste it in the back of his throat. He can’t breathe around the idea that he’s in a foreign place with no idea of how to get back to his husband. 

For the first time, he considers a world in which he never makes it back to Dean and his family. 

The thought is enough to make his knees buckle, which in turn, sends him stumbling to collapse face first into the bed. His fingers twist through his hair as he heaves in a few shuddering breaths. A bleak future unwinds in front of him, and torturous images flash past. To never again see Dean at the dining room table, head bent low over Jack’s as he helps him with his homework. To never again watch as Dean talks Claire through changing a tire. To never again sneak out of their room in the darkness of Christmas morning to put the kids’ presents under the tree, shushing Dean while his own laughter threatens to overwhelm him...He bites his lip so hard that the thin skin splits underneath his teeth. 

It’s when he’s trying to pull himself back together that he notices the drawer of the bedside table. It’s barely ajar, but everything else in the room is so pristine that it immediately piques his interest. Cas reaches out and opens it. 

Unlike the rest of the room, the bedside table drawer yields several treasures. First and foremost is a container of wet wipes and a small, half-empty bottle of lube. The sight brings a small smile to Cas’ face as he gives it a tiny shake. “Castiel, you sly dog,” he murmurs, before setting it aside. 

A little more rummaging and he finds several rocks, worn shiny and smooth by time and handling. Cas picks one up and runs his thumb over the almost glassy surface, smiling, before looking back into the drawer. He also finds a keychain of a smiling honeybee. With its large, cartoon eyes and over-wide grin, it looks like something that he would pick up for Jack. Still, he can’t deny or explain the warmth that spreads from his chest out to his fingers the longer that he looks at the keychain. Maybe this was gifted to Castiel? 

His hypothesis is strengthened when he finds a well-worn cassette tape. He doubts it still works, considering that the teeth are worn down to little nubs, but apparently Castiel thought that it was important enough to keep. When he reads the label, written in Dean’s blocky handwriting, he understands why.  _ Dean’s Top 13 Zepp Traxx _ . Castiel has a similar tape in a shoebox that he keeps in his closet. Three weeks dating and Dean had shoved that at him, cheeks pinking and feet shuffling. 

“All right,” Cas says, setting the keychain carefully down on the table. “So, what have we learned about Castiel?”

It’s an odd, disjointed picture: in his drawers, Castiel keeps only one spare outfit stashed away like a dirty secret. Stranger yet, it’s Dean’s clothes in that drawer. Castiel collects rocks and he presumably has a thing about bees. He keeps a worn-out mixtape from Dean in his bedside drawer, just for sentimental reasons. And Castiel jerks off enough to use up half a bottle of lube. None of these separate elements give him any sort of clue as who Castiel really  _ is,  _ at the heart of him. 

Cas finds one more item when he reaches back inside the drawer. His fingers brush against stiff, glossy paper. Curious, he pulls out a small stack of photographs. Most of them are blurry and some of the corners have been damaged, but Cas knows that they’re important from the painstaking way that they’re stacked and paperclipped together. 

The first photograph is the oldest. Youthful versions of Sam and Dean laugh, caught in a suspended moment. Dean’s face is split with the wide smile that Cas knows and loves, while Sam’s shaggy hair covers most of his face, leaving only his grin visible. Cas flips through the rest of the pictures. While most of them are of Sam and Dean, he can recognize other faces as well--Bobby, Jo, Ellen, Garth, Charlie. 

His breath catches in his throat when he sees Claire glaring at him from a photograph. He touches her face, noting the thin cut on her forehead and the split in her lip--how did his baby girl get hurt? Who would dare? Why wasn’t someone protecting her? The look of irritation is familiar, but Cas knows enough to look behind the narrowed eyes and curled upper lip to see the fondness and warmth lurking beneath the surface. 

Heart aching, he flips through the next few--Sam and Eileen laughing, Eileen caught in the middle of signing something, Sam and Eileen curled up together on the couch with Eileen’s head pillowed on Sam’s shoulder. There are several of Jack--Jack with flour in his hair and on his face, Jack perusing through a book, Jack and Sam with their heads bent low over a book. 

And then…

Cas’ breath stutters to a wheezing stop when he comes to the last few photos in the stack. 

Dean’s face looks up at him. In the picture, he’s rolling his eyes, but like Claire, there’s a fond almost-smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Cas smiles as he runs his finger over Dean’s face before flipping to the next picture. 

They’re all of Dean--Dean working underneath the Impala’s hood, Dean cooking in the bunker’s kitchen, Dean asleep in the front seat of the Impala, Dean with the parts of a gun scattered around him. A dozen photographs of Dean and all are taken with the same kind of care and devotion that Cas recognizes from his own heart. 

“Castiel,” he says, sadness pulling at the aching, sore spots of his own chest, “you’re in love with Dean.” 

Cas barely sleeps. 

For almost sixteen years, he’s fallen asleep with Dean’s body next to him. The only exceptions have been when Cas is scheduled to work the night shift, leaving him to catch up on sleep during the daylight hours. And even then, Dean would always race home from the garage and curl up next to him, even if it was only for thirty minutes. 

Cas’ skin yearns for touch. He’s left bereft, with only blankets that are too thin and too scratchy and a mattress that he doubts anyone has ever managed to sleep a full night on. The place that he’s in ( _the_ _bunker,_ Eileen told him as she was walking him to his room) never settles for the night. There’s always a low electrical hum, the rattling of pipes, the buzz of a place that feels more aware than anything made out of concrete and wood should.

This place is alive, in some undefined way, and, foolish as it may sound, he knows that it doesn’t want him here. No one wants him here, which is just as well, because he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be in his own bed, with its memory foam mattress and its comforter and 1000 thread count sheets that cost a small fortune. 

(The first week after they brought Jack home, he slept with them in their bed. Cas and Dean would lie awake, marveling over his perfectly formed fingers, the exquisite gift of his nose. In summer thunderstorms, the four of them would retreat into the bed and eat popcorn while he and Dean would take turns reading to the kids.)

This bed...It’s empty. 

Cas has slept a grand total of two hours when he hears pounding on his door. It startles him out of a fitful sleep and he flails uselessly, tangling himself in the covers. “Dean,” he mumbles, reaching out for his husband, “Dean, the kids are--” 

He touches nothing but cold, empty sheets. It takes him a moment to figure out why. 

“Get up,” Dean says, his voice muffled through the door. 

Thrust back into this nightmare world, Cas feels tears prickle behind his eyes. Thankfully, it’s only a brief moment of weakness, and then his better sense takes hold. He flings the blankets away and storms to the door. 

“What?” Cas snaps, loud enough to be heard through the flimsy wood. He’s reminded that he stripped down to a t-shirt and a pair of boxers to sleep in when he flings open the door and finds Dean standing on the other side Absurdly, his cheeks flush as he realizes that Dean’s eyes are jumping around on all parts of his body--his shoulders, his waist, his thighs. If his cheeks are a little pink, then Dean’s are lobster red. 

“That’s my shirt,” Dean finally says. Even the tips of his ears are red. “That’s...I thought it got lost in the wash.” 

“Well, it ended up in this room,” Cas snaps. He’s tired and achy and the bunker is pressing down all around him. Not to mention that Dean’s eyes are devouring him in a particular type of way and it’s hard to keep his blood from heating at the sight. 

Dean sputters. His expression performs some interesting gymnastics, flipping between irritation, wonder, calculation, and finally, a devastating loss. “In this room, huh?” His brows furrow so much that they almost touch, and for a moment, Cas almost feels sorry for him. 

Then he remembers everything that Dean’s done and his heart hardens once more. 

“You had a reason for coming here?”

Dean blinks and straightens. The softness flees from his face. “Yeah. Get your ass dressed.” He scrapes the back of his hand over his mouth. “We’ve got someone here that can help with this problem.” 

“I already know how you can help with this problem.” Cas glares at Dean, daring him to say anything else. 

Dean’s eyes are cold as they stare him down. He doesn’t take the bait, at least not in the way that Cas was hoping he would. 

“Just be in the war room in five minutes.” Despite the snap in his voice, Dean’s eyes make what Cas is sure is an involuntary, luxurious journey up his body, to land on his face. The moment that his eyes meet Cas’ he seems to come back to himself. Another rush of color fills his cheeks, and Dean turns on his heel and storms down the hall. 

“I don’t know where the war room is?” Cas calls after Dean’s retreating back, for all the good it does. 

It takes him fifteen minutes to find the room. Even then, it’s more a matter of luck than skill. He happens to hear the low murmur of voices as he walks past a doorway, and he follows the sound until he comes to a large, open room. Dean, Sam, Jack, and Eileen are clustered around a table, along with an unfamiliar red-headed woman. 

She looks up when he enters the room. A wide smile splits her face as she blinks large, cat-shaped eyes at him. She looks more like she’s going to an evening gala than anything else, with her hair teased to perfection and a glittery dark blue gown that sweeps the ground. He absolutely does not look at the miles of milky thigh revealed by the slit in her gown. 

“Well hello, gorgeous,” she trills in a heavy Scottish accent. There’s something feline in her movements as she slinks up to him and reaches up to stroke over his jaw with perfectly manicured nails. Cas doesn’t jerk away, but it’s a close thing. “And what’s happened to make you so…” Her eyes perform a leisurely inventory of his entire physical being. “Rumpled?” The emphasis she puts onto the word makes Castiel feel almost unclean. 

“Leave him alone.” 

Surprisingly, it’s Dean’s voice speaking up in his defense, although he doesn’t look particularly pleased about the task. No, his jaw is set in that ever present jut of anger and irritation, and his eyes are hard as he looks just past Cas. Like somehow, in his mind, this is Cas’ fault. Dean’s voice is snappish as he says, “There’s something wrong with him and Jack doesn’t know what it is. Figured you’d know more about the witchy side of things.” He pauses and continues, “But he doesn’t need you terrorizing him.” 

The woman’s eyes widen as her mouth drops open in a perfectly practiced look of shock. “Terrorize him? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Her eyes, when they turn back to his face, have lost their coyness and instead reflect a formidable intellect. Cas suddenly has the impression that he’s in the presence of someone much older than himself, which is...Well, she can’t be much over fifty, right? 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” Cas ducks out of the way as her hands reach up to touch his face. 

That gets a reaction. The woman pulls back as a puzzled expression settles on her face. From the purse of her lips, Cas can tell that confusion is not an emotion with which she’s acquainted. Sam leans forward, his face open and earnest as he says, “This is Rowena. She’s…” There’s a loaded glance shared between Rowena and Sam before he continues, “she’s a friend and we asked for her help in figuring out what’s wrong with you.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Sam flinches at the terse tone, but Cas doesn’t have it in him to care. “What’s wrong is that I’m being held here against my will by people who are…” He stops, unable to verbalize even to himself the absurdity of what his life has become. 

“Interesting.” Rowena steps closer, much too close for comfort, but this time when Cas flinches away, she doesn’t retreat. “Have a seat. You’ll want to be comfortable.” 

It’s phrased as a request, but her eyes say that it’s a command. Cas reluctantly drops into the chair provided for him and tries not to bristle at the eyes focused on him. He now understands exactly how animals in a zoo feel. 

Rowena hums as she reaches out towards him. Her fingertips barely brush his forehead before her eyebrows tick upwards in surprise. “There’s not a bit of angel in there.” 

It’s only because Cas is trying to look anywhere else that he catches the slow crumple of Dean’s face. For once, his eyes are empty of his barely banked anger. Instead, there’s something worse within them--the bleak absence of hope. 

Eileen leans forward, elbows on her knees. “What happened?” Her eyes are narrowed in concentration, like if she just thinks hard enough, the answer will appear. 

“Well, let’s see.” Rowena’s hands cup his cheeks as the tips of her nails skate through his hair. “Don’t squirm now dear, you’ll only manage to hurt yourself,” she scolds mildly when Cas tries to pull out of her grip. “Now, just stay still and--” 

Heat flows from her fingertips into his skin, into his very brain. A low cry falls from his lips as his fingernails dig into the arm of the chair. From a distance, he hears Sam’s protests, Eileen’s cry of alarm, Jack’s sounds of distress, and even Dean’s harsh bark. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, as bright purple light arcs across his vision, just before his eyes roll back in his head--

_ He winces as he drives into the small town of Bigfork. Even though he doesn’t feel the need for sleep, being cramped in a car for a two day drive is still uncomfortable. It’s with a low sigh of relief that he gets out of the truck and stretches his legs.  _

_ He can still feel the tug from behind his sternum. It’s the whole reason that he left the bunker and traveled here. It’s like a small, urgent voice whispering continuously in his ear:  _ come quick, need you, please, hurry, hurry, need you-- _ He’d tried to ignore it and for three days, he’d succeeded. But the pull is too strong, the voice too persistent, his lingering sense of guilt and duty too pervasive.  _

_ An all too familiar pain takes up residence in his chest when he thinks about Dean’s face as he’d left the bunker. He’d thought that leaving in the early hours of the morning would lessen the chance of a confrontation, but he’d forgotten to take into account Dean’s erratic sleep cycle.  _

_ “You leaving?” Dean had asked, almost invisible from his position on one of the chairs.  _

_ It was ridiculous for him to shuffle his feet like an errant child, but he couldn’t help it. “There’s something that I need to do. It’s just going to take a few days to sort out.” _

_ From Dean’s corresponding grunt, he could tell that the hunter was less than impressed with his explanation. “The kid was hoping you’d stick around at least for a while. He’s got some stuff that he wants to show you.”  _

_ Guilt curled around his heart. No doubt that was Dean’s intent. “It’s just for a few days and then I’ll be back.”  _

_ “Sure. Whatever.” Dean’s tone was dismissive. He had turned to go, the air already a little colder on the back of his neck. It was Dean’s voice, softening through the harshness, that stopped him. “Just...be careful, would you? Text us or something when you get there.”  _

_ Despite himself, he’d turned back to see Dean’s profile. His forehead sloping down to his nose, his lips… “Of course,” he said, hushed. He should have said something else. He should have offered some comfort or platitudes, but he found that he had no words. All he had was himself, and he couldn’t offer Dean that when he was leaving yet again. So he’d turned and walked out of the bunker and tried not to flinch at the sound of the door shutting behind him.  _

_ It doesn’t take much effort to follow the pull. He instinctively knows which paths to take, which roads to follow in order to reach his goal. The more he drives, the more he’s convinced that it’s an angel’s call he’s following. There’s a faint thread of grace woven through the pull, enough to ignite a spark in the meager grace left in him.  _

_ It’s unusual for an angel to call to him, but not entirely unprecedented. After the final fight, after the dust had settled and Heaven was restored to the closest it would come to its former glory, most angels chose to return there. However, there were still those who, having had a taste of free will, craved more. Those had stayed on earth and he’d made it his business to help them whenever he could. After the catastrophes he’d created in Heaven, it was the least he could do, or so he’d explained to Dean several times, often through a shouting match.  _ You can’t fucking trust them,  _ Dean said, lip curling in disgust at his naivety.  _ We said that we weren’t going to have anything more to do with angels.  _ Then Dean had turned his back and stalked away, leaving him feeling foolish and wrongfooted and very alone.  _

_ He tries to shake the memories away as he approaches a small house. This is where the call is strongest. The closer he comes, the more his grace lights up in recognition. Angels, it has to be. His angel blade sits secure in the sleeve of his coat, an ever present reassurance.  _

_ He pushes open the door of the house, listening to the creak echo throughout abandoned hallways. “Hello?” he calls. He stretches out with his grace but finds nothing other than what was already there-- _ come now, please, come, hurry, please help-- _ “You called for me,” he says, blade sliding into his hand. “I’m here. Now show yourself.”  _

_ Nothing is said in return and the first tendrils of foreboding creep through his blood. He hefts his blade as he searches through every room. He can’t shake away the call-- _ come now, please, please, come, come, hurry, please-- _ but he also can’t shake away the feeling of danger prickling at the back of his neck.  _

_ He comes to the final room at the back of the house and freezes. Drawn on the wall, in what he can only assume is human blood, is a sigil. A second later and he references the sigil against his considerable knowledge. A second after that, he’s already turning to run, but by then it’s too late.  _

_ Fire flares all around him in a circle. The acrid stench of holy oil burning assaults his nostrils. He glares through the heat and finds a smug face looking back at him.  _

_ “Sergei,” he says, through clenched teeth. “This must have taken some time to set up.”  _

_ Sergei steps forward. A glossy sheen of sweat covers his forehead, but it doesn’t disrupt any of his arrogance. “Time well spent.” He smiles indulgently. “Will you never learn?” _

_ He grits his teeth so hard that his jaw aches. It’s humiliating to be caught in a trap set by someone as insignificant as Sergei but worst of all-- “It’s not a sin to be compassionate. Most consider it a boon.”  _

_ Sergei pretends to consider this as he taps one finger against his chin. “And how is your...compassion serving you today?” He says the word like a curse. “I see that you’re not accompanied by any of your Winchesters.”  _

_ Whether or not he meant it as a blow, the words still hit the same. He keeps his face impassive. The last thing he wants is to let Sergei know where his vulnerable spots are.  _

_ “I don’t take them on milk runs,” he says instead. Dismissive.  _

_ The flames lick at the hem of his coat. He forces himself to stay still and not pace like an animal caught in a trap. The instinctive fear struggles to the forefront of his mind--though his grace is a pathetic joke most days, he’s still angel enough that the heat of the fire smothers something essential in him.  _

_ Sergei smiles back. Humoring him. “I see.” He steps forward, and it’s only then that he sees that Sergei’s fingers are already twisting into complicated patterns. “They’re going to have a difficult time finding you. I don’t suppose that you told them where you were headed.” His silence is answer enough for Sergei. “Ah well. I suppose eventually they’ll start looking for you.”  _

_ “You know that if anything happens to me, your life is forfeit.” He says that based on a wild hope; he knows nothing for sure when it comes to the Winchesters. _

_ Just for a moment, the hubris leaves Sergei’s features, replaced by a fury that rivals the fire. “That is what you have told me several times before and yet here we are.” Sergei’s fingers twist as he mutters under his breath. Over the roar of the flames, he can’t hear the specific words, which means that he won’t know enough to create a countercurse.  _

_ He knows that trying more is useless, but he has to. “There is no bad blood between us.”  _

_ Sergei interrupts his casting to spit. “No bad blood?” he asks, his voice deadly and low. “No bad blood? You threaten me--” _

_ “Well, you were blackmailing me with the death of one of my closest friends--” _

_ “And that could have been forgivable, but then you threaten the life of an innocent! A girl who had done  _ nothing  _ to you! You held her life for ransom in your hands, her heartbeat dependent upon a phone call! A girl who had never done any harm in her life. And that…” Sergei’s chest heaves with emotion. “That is unforgivable.”  _

_ Sergei steps close enough that he can see the flames leaping in his wide pupils. “I take no pleasure in this, understand. But what you did cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”  _

_ His heart beats rapidly against his ribs as his grace twists uneasily in his gut. He doesn’t dare blink.  _

_ “When you threatened Anna, you threatened to take away the most important thing in my life. It’s only fair that I return the favor.”  _

_ Righteous anger roars through him, pressing at the confines of his skin. “If you dare hurt one hair on their heads--” _

_ Sergei smiles, thin and dangerous as a blade. “You misunderstand me. I have no interest in killing the Winchesters and gaining the wrath of an entire community. The Winchesters have too many allies to cross. But you...you, Castiel...I can take  _ you _ away from  _ them _.”  _

_ Sergei ignores him then, his voice chanting low and urgent. His fingers contort into various shapes, sending shadows jumping along the walls. As Sergei chants, a deepening gloom descends on him, choking in its complexity. Fear curls around his heart as he feels his grace struggling to repel the attacker.  _

_ Sergei pauses and looks into his eyes. He finds nothing there: no pity, no mercy, no humanity. “Goodbye, Castiel,” Sergei says, before he brings his hand down in a vicious slice, sure and deadly as a guillotine.  _

_ The stroke cuts through him like a knife and tears him asunder. He’s untethered, reeling, and he only has the swiftest of moments to make a decision, before he’ll be gone--he makes his decision, tucks everything away and buries it as deep as he can, before the encroaching wave can hit. He spares a moment he doesn’t have for grief, for longing, for wondering what could have been-- _

_ “Dean,” he murmurs, closing his eyes against the wave of pain that hits the same time as the darkness does-- _

Cas comes back to himself with a loud cry. He wrenches away from Rowena’s hands, clutching his head against the pain threatening to split his skull in half. He thinks he might vomit. His eyes might fall out of his head. Purple flames still lick at the edges of his vision. 

“Here, Cas, take it easy.” The pain shredding his skull is so absolute he can barely make out Jack’s worried voice right next to him. Soft fingertips touch at his temples and Cas wants to scream because he can’t go through that again, he can’t--

Gentle, golden light spreads through him and he sighs in relief as the sharp pain ebbs into something more manageable before it disappears entirely. The absence of pain allows him to hear the argument happening on the other side of the room. “What the hell was that?” Dean snaps, gesturing at Cas. “We asked you to find out what was wrong with him, not torture him--”

Rowena stands her ground. Maybe it’s just because he’s observing from a distance, but Cas sees something that he thinks Dean has missed. Despite her outwardly cool appearance, worry and grief flicker through Rowena’s features. 

“I needed to see what caused this, otherwise I’m of no use to you. I didn’t anticipate there being quite such a reaction, but now that I know what we’re dealing with, it all makes sense.” 

“What happened?” is the immediate question that falls from the mouths of everyone present, save for Cas. 

He can’t forget what he saw, what he  _ felt _ . It was like catching sight of himself in a funhouse mirror, features distorted into something unfamiliar and nightmarish. He can’t forget the coldness of the other man’s eyes or the surge of agony when his hand came down. It felt like he was being split in two, like someone had reached inside him and torn him asunder. Hard as Cas tries to purge them from his memory, the last vestiges of phantom pain wrack his body. Cas rubs his chest as he tries to will the sensation away. He’s feeling the pain of a wound he never experienced and mourning the loss of something he never possessed. It’s off-kilter and wrong, and he needs to keep home in his sights, at all times. 

Rowena settles down on a chair and demurely arranges the folds of her gown around her ankles before she looks at them. Her eyes rest the longest on Cas, and this time he knows that he’s not imagining the pity in her eyes. 

“First, let me say that I’m not  _ sure  _ about all of this. I only know what I saw through Castiel’s eyes, and he was under... _ duress _ at the time.” Cas doesn’t miss the subtle inflection on the word, nor does he miss the way that Dean’s posture stiffens. 

“Just tell us what you know. We can figure out the rest.” 

Rowena’s eyes flick to Sam before she continues. “My best guess is that Castiel got himself caught up in a fairly nasty curse. From what I saw, it’s a mingling of several different curses, very complex spellwork, almost as good as some of mine--”

“Rowena, get to the good stuff,” Dean interrupts, though Cas doesn’t think that he means to be rude. Every line of his body is tense, from his jaw down to the restless tapping of his foot. His hands rhythmically clench and unclench. Even from his seat, Cas can see his knuckles turning white under the pressure. 

“Well, in this case, good is a relative term, but if you insist.” Rowena clears her throat with a prim cough and pins Cas in place with her stare. “I’m so sorry, dear. I hate to tell you this, but what you thought was your life is fabricated. It’s a construct.” When she doesn’t get the reaction that she was obviously looking for, she leans forward. “Dear, it’s nothing but an elaborate lie.” 

Cas’ vision is a wash of red. His life--six years of college, blood, sweat and tears; his mother’s sneer as he came out to her; the joy sparking in his heart as Dean signed the marriage certificate under his name, putting an uncommon flourish to his normally utilitarian signature; Jack’s wails as he was teething; Claire’s nightmares...His upper lip curls in a snarl, but Rowena meets his eyes. She never blinks. 

“As far as I can tell, the curse was created to...the easiest way to put this is that it was meant to split an angel apart from his grace. I don’t know exactly what spells were used or even how it was done, but it’s the best guess that I can hazard from the incantations used.”

“Tear him apart from his grace?” Sam’s eyes dart between Cas and Rowena. “Like...remove his grace?” 

Rowena rolls her eyes. “Not remove his grace. It’s complicated, but in its simplest form, the curse was meant to split him, or his essence, if you will, and make him and his grace two separate entities. It was supposed to rip him apart in the most painful way possible. In the end, neither would be able to function properly.” 

Judging from the looks of everyone else in the room, they’re as lost as Cas. Rowena drags out a piece of paper from what Cas is fairly certain is thin air and leans forward, scribbling furiously. 

“I said the curse was compromised from pieces of several different spells. There’s a sundering spell that I recognized, along with an obfuscation charm, and a tricky little piece of work that chips away at angel grace.” The scratching of Rowena’s pen stops for a second. “Also, I think I saw djinn poison somewhere in there.” 

“So what was the point?” 

Rowena’s perfect face furrows in sympathy. “To hurt him, of course. To erase him from existence and make sure that every second was pure torment.” 

“Why not just kill him?” Cas shoots a sharp glance at Eileen, who shrugs apologetically. 

Rowena raises her eyebrows in her equivalent of a shrug. “Perhaps whoever did this didn’t want the brothers Winchester on their trail. Or, perhaps death wasn’t the point.” She glances at Cas. When she speaks next, he can see something dark and ancient stirring behind her cat-like eyes. “Death is there and gone in a moment. But to pull him away from himself, to tear away everything that makes him  _ him-- _ That lasts for much, much longer.” 

“Ok. Recap.” Dean rubs his thumbs into his temples. For a moment, he looks utterly defeated. “Cas got put under a curse, the purpose of which was to...split him? Am I getting that right?” 

“It’s an oversimplification, but close enough.” 

“Ok, so shouldn’t we have a weird half-Cas? Not…” Cas can feel the heat of Dean’s scathing gaze. “Not him?” 

Jack, eager in his knowledge even now, speaks up. “That’s the djinn poison.” As all eyes turn to him, he wilts, but only slightly. “Djinns use their poison to affect the minds of their victims, right? They tap into your desires or your fears, depending on what strain they are. So I was thinking--The spell was supposed to split Cas apart, tear his grace away from the rest of him. You take away Cas’ grace, what’s left?”

Cas’ brain can’t wrap around what Jack is asking--it’s like being in one of his college philosophy courses without the benefit of being stoned beforehand--but the rest of them seem to grasp the question, as well as its ramifications. Dean’s face goes through a peculiar journey, his expression turning stony before it shifts into something else, a blankness that’s terrifying in its absoluteness. 

“His humanity,” Eileen murmurs. Sam’s eyes are wide, something fearful shining at the edges. Dean’s jaw clenches. If he stares any harder at the floor, it’s going to crack in two.

Jack nods, a little pleased but also unbearably sad. “And if he was under attack, if his grace was being torn apart and all that was left behind was just his human feelings...If the djinn poison hit that little bit of humanity...It would create someone who was convinced they were torn from their dream world. Meanwhile, the rest of Castiel is… Well, we’ve got theories, but we don’t know anything for certain. In order to confirm our research, we’ll need to get into Castiel’s mind, but we think there might be...difficulties with that plan.” 

Cas understands what Jack isn’t saying. He is the difficulty that Jack is talking about. Jack thinks that it’s because of him that Dean won’t be able to reach Castiel. But Jack also thinks that his whole life is a sham, so Cas isn’t going to take his word too seriously for anything. 

The silence stretches long beyond the length of comfort. There’s something grief-stricken in it, like the rest of the room is in mourning. It’s only Dean who hasn’t seemed to have caught the memo, still furious, his fist clenched in helpless rage on his knee. 

“All right. Fuck all of that.” Dean looks up from studying the floor between his toes. “How do we get him back?”

Cas doesn’t have to look at the other occupants of the room to see the pity in their eyes. It lurks in the room, a tangible presence. 

Rowena sits back in her chair. Her finger traces a seemingly abstract design along the length of her thigh. “ _ If  _ it could be done--and that would be a big  _ if _ \--You’d have to find a way of reaching Castiel. Which might be impossible. Dean, this spell was meant to rip him apart. It’s entirely possible that the Castiel that you knew is gone.” 

“No.” Dean stands up so abruptly that his chair clatters backwards. “No, that’s not...Cas wouldn’t…” The glare in his eyes is fierce as he looks around at all of them, daring them to say something to the contrary. “He’s not gone. How many times has he been...And he managed to make it back from those? And  _ this  _ is the thing that does him in? No. Fuck that. I’m not buying it.” 

Dean glares at each of them in turn. It might be insane, but Cas thinks that Dean saves extra vitriol for him. “Cas will figure it out. And when he does, fuck you for not believing in him.” 

Dean storms out of the room. His footsteps echo down the hall. Each one sounds like an accusation. The sound of a door slamming through the hallways, stark as a gunshot. Despite himself, Cas flinches. 

Sam looks over at Cas. His forehead creases in a perfect rendition of Sam’s brand of compassion and pity. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I know...I know that you’re confused and probably scared--” 

“No.” Cas snaps the word out, harsh enough to stop Sam in his tracks. “I’m not confused. I’m not  _ scared _ .” He’s on his feet before he even realizes his intention to rise. He looks at all of them--Sam, Eileen, Jack, even Rowena. “I’m  _ angry _ .” He doesn’t realize that his fists are clenched until he feels his fingernails cutting into the skin of his palms. “I’m fucking furious.” He’s gasping for breath, lips pulled back from his teeth in an awful grimace. “You and your brother...You  _ stole  _ everything from me! And you tell me that I’m this...this person, who doesn’t exist! He’s  _ not me. _ ” 

He wants to flip one of the tables in front of him. He wants to pick up a chair and smash it into pieces against the wall. He wants to wrap his hands around someone’s neck and squeeze. He wants to dig his fingernails into the fabric of the world and rip until he finds a way to get back home. 

But he can’t do any of that.

He meets the wide-eyed stare of the rest of the occupants in the room. In another life, these people were his family, but here, they’re just obstacles in the way of his home. 

Cas backs out of the room, never taking his eyes off of any of them, and pretends like he doesn’t hear the murmurs start the moment that he leaves.

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~


	4. part four

~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


There’s a certain kind of peace only found at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. John Winchester knew that well enough, and it didn’t take long before Dean discovered the same truth. 

In the past few years, he’s cut back. It started when he and Sam got the bunker and a semi-permanent home and Dean started going to bed on sheets that he’d bought and with something in his belly other than greasy diner food. Since they got Jack back (for the second time), he’s cut his consumption down to a few fingers a night. 

But old habits die hard, and Dean doesn’t fight the headlong slide into the whiskey bottle. He relishes the numbness spreading through his limbs and the tingling of his fingers. After he downs a third of the bottle, even his throat goes numb, but that’s fine. A little numbness never hurt anyone. 

He keeps hearing Rowena’s words-- _ Cas is gone-- _ but he refuses to accept them. Cas isn’t gone. Cas can’t be gone. Nothing--archangels, Leviathans, Purgatory, hell, not even death or God himself could keep Cas away. Nothing as pathetic as a curse is going to stop him. 

It comes as a surprise when he lifts up a surprisingly light bottle and finds it empty. He shakes it just to be sure, and watches the last little drops of liquid swirl around the bottom of the glass. “Well shit,” he says, then winces at the slur in his voice. 

It’s been ages since he went on a bender as bad as this; there’s going to be a hell of a hangover lying in wait for him in the morning. Best to continue wandering down the path of drunkenness and stave off any consequences. 

The bunker is quiet when he ventures to poke his head out of his room. Sam’s door is closed and a thin strip of light flares out from underneath it. As he walks past, he hears the muffled sound of voices from within, but he doesn’t bother to try and eavesdrop. He doubts Sam and Eileen are discussing anything that he wants to hear. Jack’s room also has the light on. Dean hears the strains of music coming from within. 

He loiters outside Jack’s door for a moment, debating whether or not he should knock. He saw the look on Jack’s face earlier today; the kid’s torn up. For years, he’s looked to Cas as not only a dad, but as a mentor. Seeing Cas like that, not to mention hearing that Cas might be gone for good...It likely knocked Jack back on his ass, which is something that not many things can do. 

In the end, Dean walks past Jack’s door. He has just enough self-awareness to know that he’s not the most comforting presence in the bunker at the moment. Jack’s already seen Cas undone; the last thing he needs is to see Dean stumbling over himself. 

His footsteps echo off the walls as he makes his way to the kitchen. His mission is simple--get in, get the booze, and get out. He’ll deal with the repercussions later. 

His plan falls apart when he reaches the library to find that someone else has already found his stash. 

“That’s not yours,” he says stupidly at the sight of the bottle clutched in Cas’ hand. 

Cas glares up at him through red-rimmed eyes. Without taking his eyes off of Dean, he hefts the bottle up to his lips and takes a belligerent sip. “So?” he challenges. “What are you going to do about it?” 

Dean might be drunk, but he’s spent over twenty years training his body to function at a heightened capacity while intoxicated. It’s child’s play for him to grab the mostly full bottle and yank it out of Cas’ hands. Cas makes a valiant effort to hold on, but it’s his drunken fumbling pitted against Dean’s drunken prowess. Dean has long years of experiencing functioning while inebriated while this Cas looks like a stiff breeze would topple him. In the end, a little whiskey slops out of the bottle and lands on Cas’ fingers and wrists, but it’s Dean who ends up with the prize. 

Cas stares at him, lip curling in disgust. Dean tries not to be hurt by the expression and takes a long swig of whiskey to help dull the pain. “That was mine,” Cas finally says. 

“And you took it from me.” Dean shakes the bottle for emphasis. “Fair is fair.” He takes another swallow, just to dim the brightness of Cas’ eyes. It doesn’t work, but to be fair, he thinks he might drain the bunker’s entire stock before Cas’ eyes lose that electric blue. 

He still can’t get over this version of Cas. This Cas who sleeps and eats, who gets drunk, who wears jeans. 

Specifically Dean’s jeans. 

_ I found them in the room,  _ Cas said, and isn’t that a kicker? Dean remembers giving those jeans to Cas. He also remembers how Cas had looked at them, eyes wide and always with that shade of confusion to his expression. Cas had held the jeans as though they were a precious bundle and Dean hadn’t missed how his thumb had stroked over the fabric. 

And then he’d never seen the jeans again, and Dean had assumed they had ended up where all unwanted, good-intentioned things ended up. Where that place was, he doesn’t know, but he knows that most of his childhood ended up there, as well as Sam’s dreams of an apple-pie, picket-fence life. 

To see those jeans appear again, to know that Cas kept them...He’s feeling all sorts of emotions that he’d rather not feel at the moment. 

He blinks and then finds that in his brief moment of introspection, Cas has struggled to his feet and now sways in front of him. Dean has to at least give him points for determination. 

“Give it back.” There’s almost something endearing about the petulant look on Cas’ face as he reaches for the bottle. Dean easily twists away, leaving Cas’ hand slapping ineffectually at his elbow. 

Pressed up this close, he can smell the cedar scent of clothes kept too long in the drawers as well as Cas’ whiskey-sour breath. This close, Dean can feel every breath Cas takes. Cas has always burned a little hot, but now, almost touching him, he’s an inferno. 

There’s a reason he tries not to stand this close to Cas. This close, his traitor of a body clings to memories and hopes that Dean buried a long time ago. He knows, with the wisdom of hindsight, that there was no other alternative, but with Cas (even a poor facsimile of him) this close, it’s hard to cling to his reasoning. 

“How about you go to bed?” Dean puts a firm hand in the middle of Cas’ chest and pushes. It’s not a hard shove, but it’s enough to set Cas back on his heels and give Dean a head start to his room. 

He’s at the door, just allowing himself to relax, when it all goes to shit. A hand planted in the middle of his back causes him to stumble forward. He damn near hits his head on the jamb, and he does bash his elbow, which causes him to almost drop his hard won bottle. He turns around with a snarl already erupting from his throat only to find Cas’ face less than two inches away from him. 

“I said, that was  _ mine _ .” If it weren’t for the unsubtle scent of alcohol wafting off of him mixing with the glassy sheen of his eyes, then Dean could almost believe that there’s an angel of the Lord standing in front of him. “You had no right to take that from me.” 

Somehow, Dean doesn’t think they’re talking about the whiskey bottle anymore, but he’s not sure. Either way, his elbow hurts, and he’s just about had it. “Yeah well, life sucks. Get used to it.” 

He’d been sure that the brusque rebuff would be enough to send Cas scurrying away with his tail tucked between his legs, but it’s possible that he was wrong. Cas’ hand slaps against the wood of the door, stopping Dean from slamming it in his face. 

“The fuck is your problem?” Dean slurs. To piss Cas off, he takes an extra-long drink from the bottle. He keeps his eyes on Cas while he does it, just to see the stormclouds gathering on his face. “You don’t even like me; you’ve made that perfectly clear over the past two days, so why the fuck are you hanging around me like some lost puppy?” Dean wants Cas to go away, Dean  _ needs _ Cas to go away. Away from his room, maybe even away from the bunker. Far enough away that Dean doesn’t feel the constant ache of his presence like a never-healing wound. “Well fuck that. I’m not here for you to decide that you suddenly like me, so how about you leave me alone and go to the fuck to bed.” 

“Because I can’t!” Cas snaps, suddenly all angelic wrath and fury. 

It’s enough to knock Dean away from the doorway, which means it’s enough for Cas to slip into his room. Once he hears the soft thump and click of the door closing behind Cas, Dean’s heart rate ratchets up to a breakneck pace. Alone, in his room, with Cas? This is exactly what he didn’t want. 

Somehow, Cas’ words manage to sink through the swiftly descending fog of panic. “What the hell do you mean you can’t sleep?” A spark of hope lights in Dean’s chest--If Cas is having a hard time sleeping, maybe it means that the real Cas,  _ Castiel-- _ maybe it means that his Cas is coming back. 

“What the fuck do you think I mean?” In the enclosed space, it becomes evident Cas is still three sheets to the wind. He stumbles into Dean’s dresser with such force that it rocks back and forth for one worrying moment. “I mean I can’t sleep, asshole. I’ve slept in the same bed, with the same person, for over thirteen years, and now I can’t sleep.” 

He’d been a fool to hope, but disappointment still twists in his chest like a rusty corkscrew. He takes another drink to soften the blow, but it doesn’t help. He tries to tune Cas out, but for too long he’s been hardwired to listen to everything that comes out of that mouth. 

“And I was trying to get myself to sleep the only way I know how, except then you came--” Cas runs his fingers through his hair and glares balefully at Dean. “And now I guess I’ll just go.”

Dean doesn’t know what makes him offer. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s some misguided sense of pity. Maybe it’s just that at the end of the day, Dean Winchester isn’t averse to helping other people destroy themselves. 

But probably, at the end of it all, is just that he really,  _ really,  _ fucking misses Castiel. 

“Or you could stay.” Dean shakes the bottle as an enticement. “Make a bad decision and help me finish off this?” 

Cas’ eyes flick from the bottle to his face, searching for a trap. Apparently, he doesn’t find any. He sinks down onto the chair with the careful grace of the inebriated. 

It probably says something unflattering about him that he has a set of glasses in his room, but Dean chooses not to think about it. With a flick of his wrist, the glasses are full. He passes one to Cas and pretends not to notice how their fingers brush. 

“Cheers,” Dean says as he sits down at the edge of the bed. He clacks his glass against the one held by Cas before he takes a sip. 

Cas follows suit. Dean doesn’t watch how his throat works as he swallows, doesn’t watch how Cas’ tongue darts out to dab at the corner of his mouth, doesn’t watch the small wrinkles form at the bridge of his nose as he winces. He looks down to Cas’ feet, except those aren’t any better because he has to watch how Cas’ toes grip at the floor as the whiskey works its way through his body. 

Dean  _ wants,  _ with a sudden fervor so vicious it takes his breath away. 

This is a bad idea, such a fucking bad idea, but he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop his blood from racing through his body, can’t stop the runaway train of his imagination. He can’t stop his roving eyes from settling on the gap of Cas’ shirt at his collarbone. There’s a shadowy bit of skin that’s almost but not quite shown as he shifts, and it’s tantalizing.

Then Dean drags his eyes up to Cas’ face to find out that he’s been caught. 

Cas looks at him with the same steady gaze Dean has relied on for years. Pinned by those calm eyes, Dean’s pulse kicks against the confines of his skin. Cas looks at him like he knows every single thought that’s ever gone through his head. It’s with difficulty that Dean reminds himself this isn’t  _ Castiel _ he’s looking at. 

Except maybe there’s just the tiniest shred of Castiel still in there, because Cas says, without any prompting, “I’m not going to fuck you.” 

That’s enough to knock any kind of mood right out of him. Dean sputters and chokes on his mouthful of whiskey. He barely manages to avoid spitting it out in Cas’ face. “What the...the hell? I don’t want to fuck you,” he says. His denial falls painfully flat. 

Cas doesn’t bother to call him out on his obvious lie. It’s the decent thing to do, which Dean can appreciate. He holds his glass out in an unspoken request, which Dean fulfills. Without taking his eyes off of Dean, Cas knocks back half the shot. 

“Everyone wants me to be him.  _ Castiel. _ ” Cas’ nose wrinkles like he has a personal aversion to the name. 

“Because you are.” 

“I’m  _ not.”  _ Cas’ voice cracks like a whip in the otherwise silent room. He shakes his head and swallows the rest of his drink as an afterthought. “I don’t even know who he is.” 

This time, when he swallows, the whiskey burns more. It mixes with the bitterness rising in the back of his throat and Dean winces as he forces it all down. 

“Cas is…” How is he supposed to describe Cas? How can he summarize a being who existed for millennia? How do you explain the intricacies of a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent who likes honeybees and burgers? How do you shove stardust and the cosmos into a simple human container? 

There’s disbelief and a hint of anger in Cas’ eyes, and Dean wants nothing more than to grab him and shake until an angel pops out.

“Besides Sam, Cas is the best friend I’ve ever had. He’s...He gave up everything for me and Sam, ditched his...well, his family and I guess his job, and all because he believed in me and Sam even when there wasn’t a damn reason for him to.” 

Dean swallows. The memories of those desperate days crash into him. There was pain and fear in the midst of the Apocalypse, but at the same time there was a simplicity then, a definite right and wrong. And in the eye of the storm, there was Cas, slowly slipping into humanity, but always with that shred of almost vicious hope. 

“Cas is kind but sometimes he can be a bit of a dick. He has a weird thing with bees and really, really shitty taste in cars. I don’t know… I don’t know why he sticks around, but he does, no matter what happens. No matter what, he always manages to come back.” 

The words catch in Dean’s throat and he takes another swallow of whiskey to loosen them. Cas watches him, his eyes hooded and intent. One finger taps in a slow beat against the side of his glass. 

“You love him.” 

It’s phrased as a statement, but Cas puts a hint of inflection in his voice to turn it into a question. Dean still sputters on his drink. Cas has always had a bluntness about him, a way of cutting straight through the human bullshit and landing, unerringly, on the truth. 

He’s never told Cas. Outside of Sam and Mom, he hasn’t said the words in almost twenty years. Love is a weakness few hunters can afford. Love leaves you open for all kinds of wounds. Loving Castiel would be an act that he would never recover from. 

He hasn’t. Loving Castiel is an always seeping wound that lingers in his chest and never completely heals over, not that Dean wants it to. 

He doesn’t say anything in response to Cas, which is answer enough. He nods, expression distant, as he takes another sip of his whiskey. 

“But you’re not...you’re not with him?” 

A knife twists in the wound, deepening it just a little bit further. 

He doesn’t respond to that either. Cas nods again, a small rumble of hum caught in his throat. “Why not?” he asks, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

And maybe it would be, for someone else. Maybe someone else would be able to reach out and make the dream a reality. Maybe someone else would be able to turn thought into action. Maybe someone else would be worthy of what Cas offers. 

Because he knows. Has for a while. It’s almost impossible not to. It could be his, if he wanted it--lazy mornings spent rolling in bed, slow afternoons spent researching cases, nights spent wrapped around each other. If he had enough courage, it could all be his. 

But he...There’s too much that lies between him and Cas, too much hurt, too many betrayals, too much bloodshed and horror and loss to ever forget. 

Why aren’t they together? Dean hardly knows, only that they’re not, and somewhere along the way, this became an immutable fact, like gravity. 

Cas hums again with the purposed focus of the well and truly drunk. “I met Dean when I was finishing up my last semester in nursing school. We were both at the same bar, both looking to blow off some steam. He bought me shots all night and I ended up going home with him.” Cas smiles, soft and sad. “He put me to bed and spent the night on his couch. In the morning he made breakfast and I never really left.” 

Cas’ expression breaks. “I don’t… I’ve spent so many years sleeping next to him and I don’t know how to sleep without him, I don’t know… I don’t know how to do anything without him and the kids…” 

“I don’t know what to do if Cas is really gone,” Dean finally rasps. The whiskey has turned his throat into a battleground and emotion does the rest. “I can’t… I never got a chance to…” 

To do what? To tell Cas how he really feels? To resolve the tangled knot of the past? To apologize for years of neglect and pain, a thousand petty cruelties inflicted on each other? To do one goddamned thing right for once in his miserable life? 

Cas swallows the last bit of liquid in his glass and sets it down definitively on the arm of the chair. Dean barely has time to wonder what he’s doing before Cas bullies his way forward, knocking Dean’s arms wide with a shove of his hips. 

Dean groans as Cas settles into his lap, heavy weight resting on his thighs. Reflex has him reaching up and grabbing Cas’ waist, thumbs settling easily into the grooves of his hips. Cas’ arms wrap around his shoulders as he presses their foreheads together. 

“I miss him,” Cas whispers, and now that Dean’s listening to it, there’s a definite slur in his voice. Dean tries to hold that thought foremost in his mind, but it’s so hard when Cas’ fingernails scrape at the back of his neck. Cas shifts in his lap and it’s so damn hard for Dean not to wrap his arms around him, so hard to not give into temptation. 

“You have to move.” Dean’s voice is thick. Despite his best efforts, his fingers dig into Cas’ hips, hard enough that Cas’ breath hitches. “You have… Cas. I’m not doing this.” His mouth says one thing, but his body says another. He presses his forehead into Cas’ shoulder. 

“I miss…” Cas’ nose brushes against his temple. “Dean….” 

To hear his name spoken in that rough voice, to hear the desperate catch in Cas’ voice as he presses closer against him… It would take a saint to resist and Dean sure as hell isn’t a saint. 

It’s so easy to twist his head and brush his lips against Cas’. It’s so easy and so  _ good,  _ especially when Cas presses into him, legs tightening around Dean’s hips as his fingers dig into Dean’s shoulders. 

The kiss is clumsy as their mouths bump into each other, but it’s enough to short-circuit Dean’s brain. If he closes his eyes then he can pretend. He can almost believe that this is his Cas, that he’s been brave enough to take what he wants, that miracle of miracles, Cas wants him  _ back-- _

“Cas,’ Dean pants as he pulls away for breath. He kisses Cas again, relishing in the way that their lips catch, the soft little sounds that Cas releases into his mouth. “Cas.” 

It’s not Castiel. 

He might look the same and sound the same and walk the same, but it’s not  _ him _ . The thin shred of power that Castiel brings with him whenever he walks into a room, the spark and snap of his presence, the electricity of his gaze and touch...It’s good, it’s so damn  _ good,  _ especially when Cas drags his nails across the back of Dean’s neck and into his hair, but it’s not...It’s not  _ Castiel,  _ and that makes all the difference in the world. 

With effort, Dean pulls away. He rests his forehead against Cas’ chest and breathes. His shaky breaths dampen the fabric of his own shirt. He can’t stop stroking over Cas’ sides down to his hips, but he can’t… 

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, forcing himself away, forcing his hands still. “I’m sorry, I can’t…” Moisture leaks out of his eyes from where he’s squeezing them shut. “You’re not…” 

“I’m so tired,” Cas murmurs. His fingers stroke, feather-light, over Dean’s hair and cheeks. “Dean, I just want… Can we sleep? I just want to sleep.” 

Dean’s heart shatters, but he barely notices. It’s been in the process of shattering for years, a slow motion break that takes an eternity to complete and hurts all throughout. “Yeah. Yeah babe.” The endearment comes easily to his lips and it’s that which makes Cas sag against him. Dean collapses backward and shifts on the mattress, Cas clinging to his body like a limpet the entire time. “We can sleep.” 

By the time Dean manages to maneuver them so that their heads are on the pillows, Cas is asleep and snoring softly. Cas’ hands still pull Dean closer to him and they don’t release their grip, even as his chest rises and falls with the evenness of sleep. For the first time since he woke up in the infirmary, Cas’ face reflects some kind of peace. 

It’s not for him. None of this--the kisses, the caresses, the trust--none of it is meant for him. Still, Dean soaks it up like water-starved soil. He drinks his fill of Cas, the sleep-slack look on his face, the soft rumble of his breathing. 

Cas doesn’t stir as Dean brushes a kiss across his forehead and Dean falls asleep with his lips still tingling. 

There’s a particular warmth that comes from waking up next to a body cocooned in the covers next to you. Dean doesn’t know that warmth as well as he would like, but his body craves it. He tucks in closer to the source of heat and doesn’t stop until his nose brushes against a curl of soft hair. 

Dean breathes in as something unclenches in his chest. His arms wind around a solid, firm chest and his lips press against the knob of a spine. This is how all of his mornings should begin, curled up around Cas, dodging the responsibilities of the day. 

The thought catches in Dean’s brain and snaps his eyes open as his heart catches.  _ Cas.  _

The events of the previous night crash against his skull, which exacerbates the headache threatening at the edges of his consciousness. His blurry vision takes a second to sharpen and when it does, Dean discovers the whole can of worms he’s managed to explode.

He’s spooned up behind Cas, his knees slotted neatly against Cas’ thighs. His arm is wrapped around Cas’ waist and his nose is pressed against the collar of Cas’ shirt. The majority of his vision is consumed with Cas’ dark hair, spread wild across the pillow. 

In Purgatory there were moments, precious and fleeting, when exhaustion had taken over and forced them to stop, when Dean needed just… Just a second. And then, he’d laid down and his head had unerringly found a resting place in Cas’ lap. He would doze there, with monsters crawling all around them, with filth and blood caked to his clothing, secure in the knowledge that as long as Cas was with him, nothing bad could happen. Cas’ fingers had traced over his temples, soothing away the horrors and Dean had finally, finally, rested. 

And then, there was that one night in Idaho, in a hotel room reeking of cigarettes and weed, when he’d wrapped Cas in arms, when he’d pulled Cas closer and, while Cas had slept, he’d whispered  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry _ into his hair until he’d fallen asleep with the words still on his lips. 

Those times had been awful in their own right, but there had been the base comfort of waking up next to Cas, of feeling the steady pulse of Cas’ breathing next to his. This, however, isn’t like those times. Dean knows, with the certainty that comes from fighting for his life, that he doesn’t want to get caught in this bed, with his arms around Cas. He wants...well, he sure as hell doesn’t want to leave, but the thought of staying, only to see Cas’ eyes narrow in revulsion, is too painful to bear. 

Even with the need to escape nipping at his heels, getting out of bed proves difficult. When he tries to pull away, Cas rolls, trapping Dean’s hand against his body with a sleepy murmur of discontent. Dean wriggles free eventually, though it takes some effort. He tries not to listen to Cas’ soft, unhappy cry, or look at how Cas curls into himself once he’s bereft of Dean’s warmth. 

He can’t stay. He knew last night--none of this is for him. 

He pads towards the door on bare feet and twists the knob slowly to avoid making any sound that could wake Cas. He glances behind him once more so he can imprint the sight into his brain. As he watches, Cas drags the blanket under his chin before he relaxes into the pillow with a low sigh. 

Dean wants to stay caught in this moment forever, but the seeing and not having rips at his chest. He drinks his fill one last time, cognizant that this is the last time that he’ll see Cas asleep in his bed, before he turns around--

And comes face to face with Sam. 

After seeing Cas sprawled artlessly in his bed like some kind of domestic wet dream, the sight of Sam is like a slap in the face. He muffles a curse into the back of his hand as he fights the instinctive urge to slam the door. 

That would wake Cas up. Waking Cas up would lead to a thousand uncomfortable conversations and questions, none of which Dean has any answers for. 

So instead of doing what he  _ wants _ to do, which is shut the door right in Sam’s big stupid moose face, Dean opens it just wide enough for him to squeeze through. He shuts the door with the same care shown by bomb squads and then turns to face Sam, his arms crossed belligerently over his chest. “What?” he hisses, as the mantra repeats in his head-- _ can’t wake Cas, can’t disturb Cas.  _

“I was coming to find you to tell you I couldn’t find Cas anywhere, but it uh...seems like you took care of that problem.” 

There’s a complicated sort of expression on Sam’s face. Dean can’t tell whether his brother is pissed, disgusted, or holding back laughter. 

“He can’t sleep,” Dean says, like that explains anything. 

Sam cranes his head to look over Dean’s shoulder in an exaggerated motion before he looks back at Dean, brow raised. “Looks like he’s sleeping fine now.” 

Dean puffs out a short, sharp breath of frustration. “What the hell do you want me to say? In his mind, he’s got a husband and kids who are missing him and we’re the assholes who kidnapped him. If that were you, would you sleep?” 

Sam hums, still with that awful, blank expression on his face. “Right,” he finally drawls. “He’s missing his kids. And his husband. Who apparently, happens to share your name.” 

Color flares on Dean’s cheeks but he doesn’t look away. Twelve years he’s spent trying to hide one of his most essential pieces from Sam and now, with everything shattered into pieces around him, he finds that he’s just...tired. 

“Yeah, Sam. Same name.” 

Sam’s eyebrow ticks up, but for once, he says nothing. Instead, he waits for Dean to speak. 

“We need to get Cas, the real Cas, back. I don’t care what it takes, what we have to do, but…” 

Dean’s brain travels back to that last night, the sight of Castiel walking up the stairs and into the cold. Cas had hesitated, like he was waiting for something, like he wanted Dean to ask him to stay. The words had crowded against Dean’s lips so insistently that he’d had to bite his tongue to keep them at bay. 

Why hadn’t he just asked? It would have been so simple, so fucking easy for him to say “ _ Why don’t you wait until morning and then we’ll go together?”  _ He’d wanted to ask. Why hadn’t he? 

“He would do it for us. If one of us got hit by that kind of curse, then he wouldn’t stop until he got us back.”

“Yeah. Yeah, all right. I’ll give Rowena a summoning and see if she and Jack can whip anything up. If this kind of curse was meant for angels, then there’s probably some Enochian base to it. Eileen and I will hit the books, see if we can unravel any of the other threads Rowena talked about. And I guess you can…”

“He hates me, Sam,” Dean admits. He squeezes the back of his neck to stop the pain those words bring, but it doesn’t help. “He hates me for not being…” He waves his hand, like that’s going to explain anything. “He wants me to be his Dean and I can’t...I’m not that kind of guy. Never will be.” 

Sam’s expression shifts into a sickly pitying grimace. Dean coughs into the heel of his hand, long and obnoxious, to try and change Sam’s expression into something else. It works, but only marginally. The pity still lurks behind Sam’s eyes, a riptide beneath an otherwise smooth current. 

“Well, I guess he’ll be spending most of his time with Rowena and Jack anyway. You can research with us.” Sam’s voice is so carefully even that it makes Dean cringe on the inside, but he doesn’t show his distaste. “Anyway. You probably want to get showered. I’m going to get all of our stuff together. I’m going to do the summoning after breakfast and I don’t think Rowena will appreciate it if we call her here and don’t have everything ready.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get sleeping beauty up and moving.” 

Sam doesn’t move, which means Dean doesn’t move, which means that they’re standing in the middle of the hallway caught in a staring contest. Sam gives the impression that he’s waiting for something. 

Before his brain has a chance to catch up and keep him from making terrible decisions, Dean blurts, “Cas said something last night. He said...” 

“Yeah?” Sam says after an awkwardly long pause. His eyebrows raise in a poor imitation of mirth. “Guess he would have to say a few things to end up...well. Where he ended up.” 

Heat spreads from Dean’s cheeks to the back of his neck and tips of his ears. He’s about ready to snap at Sam and tell him to mind his own fucking business when Sam’s expression shifts from sardonic into apologetic. His idiotic giant of a brother is about ready to open up his mouth and no doubt apologize, so Dean spits out the question that’s been bothering him since Cas first asked it. 

“He asked why we weren’t together. Cas and me. The real Cas and me. He um… He wanted to know why.” 

Dean’s teeth return to his lower lip. A small jolt of pain hits him as he worries at the tender flesh, raw from his constant attention. He pokes at it with the tip of his tongue and remembers how Cas’ lips felt last night, how Cas’ tongue had swept over the same flesh. 

Meanwhile, Sam looks supremely unimpressed. A pissy little purse of his lips is all Dean gets from him. Quite frankly, after dropping what he feels is a frankly life-altering question in Sam’s lap, Dean was hoping for more. 

“You know,” Sam says, before he turns to go, “I’ve been wondering the same thing for years.”

  
  


  
  


Dean’s scent stays with Cas, even after a shower. 

Cas catches little whiffs of it as he drifts through a poor sham of his morning routine. When he lifts his hand to his mouth, he can smell leather on his wrist. As he drags on another one of Dean’s shirts, he’s surrounded by the cedar scent of Dean’s dresser. Dean’s soap and Dean’s shampoo cling to his skin and hair, making him feel as though he’s surrounded by the man. It’s a petty form of torture and by the time he finishes getting ready, the irritation has settled easily onto his mood. 

He walks into the library, where Jack and Rowena are busy at work. Jack takes one look at him and walks over, hand already outstretched. Cas tries to dodge, but a simple sweep of Jack’s fingers eradicates the headache which had been brewing behind his eyes. Cas sighs and murmurs out a lackluster thanks. Even though the sharp, stabbing pain has vanished, he can still feel phantom aches twinging through his skull. The lights of the library do nothing to solve that problem, nor does the sharp, heady bite of the herbs Rowena is mixing. 

“Looking a little under the weather, I see,” she chirps. “No matter. We should soon have all that put to rest.” 

She guides him to a seat before pushing on his shoulders. There’s a surprising amount of strength in her tiny frame. “Just sit there.” She doesn’t give him an opportunity to argue as she darts around the room, dipping her fingers into a bowl and daubing strange symbols along the wall. Jack watches her, occasionally asking a question or adding an additional ingredient. 

“Hopefully this will counteract the curse,” Jack says after a long moment. “Between the sigils and the spell Rowena’s planning on performing, we should be able to break through…” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Well, everything.” 

Cas accepts the paltry excuse for an explanation without much fuss. By now, he’s learned that nothing comes from arguing with these people. Not to mention, there’s his strong suspicion that they could very easily catch him if he were to try and escape. 

“All right. I think we’re ready.” Rowena settles across from him, and Cas is hit with an unpleasant reminder of the spell yesterday and the subsequent agony that came from it. “Don’t worry, dear. This isn’t going to be anything like before. Yesterday was just a little...exploration. A tiny little probe if you will.” Her nose wrinkles as she smiles coyly at him. “No probing today. Today I’m going to make a connection with your mind and memories.” 

“And what does that--” Cas doesn’t even manage to get the whole sentence out before Jack starts reading. His clear voice rolls easily over the harsh syllables. Rowena strikes a match and drops it into a large stone bowl. Whatever is inside flares to life with an almost neon purple flame. 

The scent reaches Cas’ nostrils. He breathes in, then blinks against the sudden influx of exhaustion seeping into his body. Holding open his eyelids suddenly requires a supreme strength of will, of which he’s no longer capable. 

“Cas.” Rowena’s voice echoes in his brain, like it’s coming to him through a long and twisted tunnel. “Castiel.” 

_ No one calls me Castiel,  _ he wants to complain, but before he can, he’s standing in the middle of a field. 

He glances around, blinking in confusion. He would say it’s a dream, but no dream has ever been this vivid. He can feel the shoots of grass scratching against his bare feet as well as the sun beating down on the back of his neck. A trickle of sweat starts at his hairline. 

“Interesting,” Rowena muses. The juxtaposition of her elegant dress to the pastoral scene is jarring. She matches Cas’ curious look with one of her own. “This is the spell,” she explains, with a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “You’re in control of what we see; I’m just a hitchhiker. You chose to be here.” 

“I don’t know where  _ here _ is.” Nothing about this place sparks a memory. He doesn’t think he’s ever been here before, not on dates with Dean or trips with the kids. 

Rowena purses her lips in a moue of concentration. “Well, that’s interesting.” She offers nothing else, and when Cas looks towards her for guidance, she shoos him away. “This is your tour, not mine. I’m a passenger here.” Cas doubts that’s the whole truth, but he doesn’t know how to accuse her of lying. 

He walks forward, ignoring the swiftly rising temperature. Though the scene appears idyllic, with its wide fields of lush grass, graceful trees swaying in the breeze, an actual babbling brook snaking through the ground, there’s something awful lurking just at the edges. 

A figure bursts out of a shed. There’s something familiar about how they move, how they...With a sick lurch, Cas recognizes the coat flapping around the man’s knees. “That’s...that’s me,” he says needlessly. “Him. Castiel. That’s...that’s him.” 

“Indeed.” 

Cas looks to Rowena. Her playful tone has vanished, replaced by something more troubled. 

Castiel runs towards them. Concern flickers in Cas’ belly as he notices his lurching gait. There’s something unnatural and hitched in how his legs move, something that speaks of enormous exertion and too much stress placed on an already struggling body. 

Castiel is headed straight for them and Cas makes to leave or at least duck behind a convenient tree, but he’s stopped by Rowena’s fingers clamping around his arm. “He can’t see you,” she murmurs. “You need to stay here so you can pick up the thread.” 

Castiel continues to run at them. He comes close enough that Cas can make out his individual features. Rowena’s hand holds him firm, even when he wants to recoil in disgust. Thin red lines spread across Castiel’s face, contrasting with the waxy, sallow appearance of his skin. The whites of his eyes are tinged with red and yellow alike, like a healing bruise or a pus-filled wound. A smell accompanies him, something damp and vaguely animal in nature. It turns Cas’ stomach, but Rowena keeps him stationary. 

“Why did you come here?” she asks. “Why did you choose to visit this particular place?” 

“I don’t know.” Castiel’s chest heaves with the force of his breathing. Tiny growls escape through Castiel’s bared teeth and Cas’ stomach drops in horror at the animalistic noises coming from his doppelganger. “I don’t know!” he cries when Rowena shakes his arm hard enough to jar him. “I’m not...I didn’t choose to come here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t--”

The world shifts under his feet and Cas staggers. Now, instead of a picturesque field, he’s in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. The air is filled with the same dank, rotten scent of earlier, so thick that Cas can feel it coating his tongue. He fights to keep himself from gagging as the stench rolls over him. 

Once he recovers from the smell, Cas notices the sound stretching to fill the warehouse. He’s never heard the sound in person, but he’s seen enough movies to identify it. The sick, almost wet crunch of knuckles striking flesh is enough to make him grimace. 

Then he peers around the corner of a dilapidated set of shelves and it becomes so much worse. 

Castiel’s fists pummel into Dean’s body. His face is devoid of mercy or any kind of humanity. And Dean...Dean doesn’t fight back. He tries to defend himself and minimize the damage of the blows, but even though, in his altered state, Castiel leaves himself open to dozens of attacks, Dean never takes the opportunity. 

He does try to talk to him. Cas catches snatches of his pleas, garbled out between punches. “Cas, this isn’t you man!” Fists strike Dean’s face, sending him to the ground. “This is the spell!” Dean is sent sprawling to the ground again. 

Cas thinks he might be sick. This isn’t love. Whatever this is, between Dean and Castiel, it isn’t love. It’s not love that sends Dean on a sacrificial mission against Castiel, it’s not love that makes Castiel slam his knuckles into Dean’s face until he’s bleeding. Whatever this is, it’s no kind of love that Cas recognizes. 

Two figures step out of the shadows, Sam and an inexplicably blonde Rowena. Cas’ breath stutters in his chest to see her at the sight of this horror. With a mere flick of her fingers, Rowena sends Castiel crashing to the ground. And then, in spite of all common sense or self-preservation, Dean sprints towards Castiel’s crumpled body. One of Dean’s hands, bloodied by Castiel’s untender ministrations, tenderly cups Castiel’s cheek. Even from Cas’ poor vantage point, he can see the relief shining clearly in Castiel’s eyes. 

“You did that to him?” Cas finally asks, after he watches Dean help Castiel sit up straight, and after he watches Dean’s arm wrap around Castiel’s shoulders to support him all the way out to the car. 

Rowena’s face is like marble as she stares at the two figures. “We all have things in our past we’re not proud of. I...I was a different person then. At least, I’d like to think so.” 

Cas has a lot of thoughts regarding that statement, but he doesn’t get a chance to voice them as the world blurs around the edges once more. 

By now he knows somewhat what to expect, but it still takes him by surprise when the ground underneath his feet changes from a dirty warehouse floor to the too-clean floor of an abandoned house. 

Unlike the field, he’s seen this place before. He already fears it, with a visceral emotion deeper than rational thought. Once again, the fire flares to life, blazing a perfect circle into the floor. 

Rowena steps next to him. Her eyes glow in the light as she stares at the fire with an unnerving intensity. Cas wants to leave, but his feet are frozen. He could no more move than he could shift the walls with his mind. Sandpaper coats his throat and it’s not entirely from the smoke of the flames. 

“What happened here?” Rowena asks. Her dark pupils catch and reflect the light, turning her already ethereal face into something foreign and otherworldly. 

Words die on Cas’ dry lips. He’s mesmerized and repelled in equal turns by the crack and snap of the flames. The same thought presses in around him, thick as the smoke curling around the ceiling. Something terrible happened here. Something bad enough to rip a hole in someone’s world. 

“Castiel.” Rowena’s voice is sharp and urgent. Purple light gleams at the edges of her irises. “Castiel, what happened here? Why did you bring us here?” 

“I don’t know.” Cas’ voice is barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know, I don’t want…” He can barely breathe through the stench in the room. “I don’t want to be here.” 

“You brought us here,” Rowena says. Cas can’t find the joking, flirtatious woman that he first met anywhere within her now. “No matter how many times you insist you don’t want to be here, you’re the one who dragged us here, which means this place is important. Until you face what happened, you’ll never be free of this.” 

“Nothing happened here.” Fear bubbles in his throat, hot and vicious. “I don’t know, I don’t want to be here, you say that I’m bringing us here, but I  _ don't want to be here _ .” Cas pants, the desperation of a trapped animal scratching through his brain. Rational thought flees, along with everything but the most basic self-preservation, and the single overriding thought pulsing through his head. “Something bad happened here.” 

His vision blurs. The details of the room disappear, along with Rowena, until all that remains are the flames. Despair sinks into his gut--it’s all out of control, everything he worked for, everything he wanted, his perfect life slipping away, everything he held dear vanished, and worst of all, it’s his fault,  _ it’s all his fault _ \--

A sharp voice breaks through his thoughts. 

“Castiel. Castiel, focus.” 

“My name’s not Castiel,” he whispers, more reflex than actual protest. He’s fixated by the fire. Panic not wholly his claws at his chest and makes a leisurely journey up through his throat. “I don’t go by that. Not since Dean, I always go by Cas because that’s what he...that’s the name he calls me. Castiel’s not… I’m not Castiel.” 

He doesn’t want to be Castiel, to be the vicious angel who slams his fists into Dean’s face. To be Castiel, who keeps Dean’s clothes and Dean’s pictures hidden away in a drawer where no one else can see them, keeps his love hidden like a shameful secret instead of shouting it for the world to hear. He doesn’t want, doesn’t want--

“Castiel, why are you here? Castiel!” Rowena’s voice is sharp and near frantic, sending Cas’ mind into a frenzy. 

_ I’m not him,  _ Cas tries to say, but he can already feel the world slipping away. 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to Rowena bending over him. When she realizes he’s relatively unharmed, the worry vanishes from her face, replaced with mild irritation. 

This time there’s no headache. Instead, Cas just feels like he got run over by a bus. Everything hurts, from his chest, to his legs, to his fingernails. Even his teeth ache. 

“Cas?” Eileen asks, replacing Rowena by his side. Her hands rest on his shoulders, stopping his body from continuing its determined slump towards the ground. Pain jolts through Cas’ body, muscles twisting against their will, and he clenches his jaw to keep the small whimper firmly behind his teeth. Ignoring for the moment his hatred of everyone in this god-forsaken bunker, Cas allows Eileen to prop him back up into a seated position. “You ok?” 

He forces a grimace which is less than convincing, if Eileen’s wince is anything to go by. Eileen reaches out, hesitates, then slowly strokes through his hair. Initially, Cas bristles, but then decides there are better battles to wage. There’s some small comfort to be found in her touch, after all. 

Cas decides he could spend several hours like this, in blessed quiet, which means of course Rowena has to shatter his hopes. “You need to get the boys,” she tells Eileen. Thin white lines bracket her mouth. “We have a problem.” 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~


	5. part five

~*~*~*~*~*~

**__ **

It’s a somber group that gathers for Rowena’s announcement. Jack sits cross-legged on top of one of the tables while Rowena perches on the edge, legs swinging back and forth. Sam perches in one of the chairs, index finger tapping at his chin, while Cas huddles in an armchair, Eileen close to his side. Dean very carefully avoids thinking of the quick flash of jealousy he gets from seeing how Cas seems to take comfort from Eileen but not from him. 

Not his place, not his Cas, and theoretically, not his problem. 

Yeah right. 

“Well, do you want the bad news or the good news first?” Rowena asks after Dean flops into a chair, specifically chosen because it puts Cas and Eileen behind him and out of his field of vision. 

“Well, there’s not going to be a lot of it, so give us the good news first I guess,” Dean grunts. 

Rowena’s smile is devoid of mirth. “Well, to start off with…” The pause for dramatic effect isn’t really needed, but she drags it out anyway, until they’re all unconsciously leaning forward, waiting for her to continue. When she notices Dean pitching forward, she drops her next sentence with the aplomb of a true performer. 

“Castiel hasn’t vanished.” 

The news hits like a bomb, spilling out shock waves of relief. Emotion buffets Dean in waves. First comes the brief moment of incomprehension, then, as his brain puts the words together in a way that makes sense, he slumps back into his chair. The iron band around his chest uncinches, and Dean takes his first unobstructed breath in days. 

“No doubt in my mind or in Jack’s--we were definitely getting little wisps of his grace and his thoughts. I couldn’t have seen what I did if that weren’t the case.” 

_ What did she see?  _ The question weighs heavy on Dean’s mind, not that he’ll ever ask it. 

“The bad news is…” Rowena clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, but it appears Castiel doesn’t want to come back.”

Any relief Dean managed to find vanishes, leaving him colder for the loss than he was to begin with. The words ricochet around his skull until he thinks his ears might bleed. 

_ Castiel doesn’t want to come back.  _

And isn’t that just… fucking predictable.  _ Of course  _ Castiel doesn’t want to come back. Castiel never wants to come back, Castiel never wants to stay. He already knew this, yet hearing Rowena say it makes him feel like his insides have been scraped raw. 

“I don’t know the reasons. All I know is that he was  _ there-- _ I could feel his grace all around me, but every time I addressed him, he was adamant that he wasn’t Castiel. I called him Castiel and he insisted “ _ ` _ That's _ not my name’ _ .” 

“Because it’s not.” 

Cas’ voice rumbles through the room as a low growl. Against his better judgement, Dean cranes his head backward to look at him. Eileen’s hand hovers over Cas’ knee but remains suspended, a magnet repulsed by its opposite. “It’s not my name,” Cas repeats, steel in his voice and eyes. His chin juts forward in defiance. “I haven’t gone by Castiel since college.” 

The surety in his tone, the smugness, the constant denial of everything that Dean’s come to rely upon… The swirling storm of rage and loss and regret collides in a colossal, cataclysmic tempest, and Dean finally snaps. 

He bolts out of his chair and flings it to the side. He hears it crash against the opposite wall, but it sounds distant, as does Sam’s shout of  _ Dean what the hell are you doing?  _

Dean ignores that like he ignores the shocked look on Eileen’s face or how her hand finally clamps down on Cas’ thigh. His vision narrows to Cas’ huge, guileless eyes peering up at him and the hint of shock as Cas’ mouth falls open. 

Wrong, wrong, it’s all fucking  _ wrong-- _

“Will you shut the fuck up with that already?” 

Dean likes to think he’s gotten a handle on his temper. Back in Purgatory, when it looked like it was going to cost him everything (going to cost him  _ Cas _ ), he’d managed to reign in the ugly rage that seethed in his chest. He fettered it and threw it deep inside himself and for the most part, there it’s stayed. He still feels the sharp spark occasionally, the slow simmer of hate clawing at his throat, but he’s learned to swallow it down. Take a breath. Accept that sometimes, bad shit happens and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

The fetters snap and a noxious, hideous thing bursts free. 

“You didn’t  _ go to college, _ ” Dean spits, hurling words like knives. He hopes they stick, he hopes they rip Cas open until he hurts just as much as him. Dean can already see the protest forming before he cuts it off with a brutal snarl. “Enough already! You didn’t go to  _ college _ , you’re not  _ married,  _ you don’t have  _ kids-- _ You don’t have any of that!” Dean narrowly misses poking Cas’ eye out as he stabs an accusatory finger in his face. Guilt flares, sharp and painful, when Cas flinches away from him, but Dean pushes that into the place where he shoves everything he feels regret over. 

“Your name is Castiel. You’re an angel of the Lord and you don’t…” 

_ You don’t have a family. _

He stops the words before they ever reach the light of day, but it’s like they’re still hanging in the air, damning and awful. Every hateful emotion Dean’s felt in the past eleven years clogs his throat and he gags on them, stomach roiling. Heat prickles at his nose and behind his eyes, and Dean realizes, horrified, that he’s about to cry. 

The rest of the noise from the bunker crashes into him--Sam snarling that he needs to calm the hell down, Eileen shouting that he needs to back off, Jack’s soft pleas for quiet, and worst of all, Cas’ fervent insistence-- _ I’m not Castiel, I’m not Castiel, I’m not Castiel-- _

Dean storms out of the room and down the hall, blood boiling and heart sinking. 

It’s hours before someone dares to knock on his bedroom door. 

Dean opens it, unsurprised to find Sam on the other side. While he gets on with Eileen like a house on fire, she hasn’t known him long or well enough to perform the obligatory  _ Dean you need to pull your head out of your ass  _ talk. Rowena doesn’t have the patience for it, and some of the old awe still clings to Jack, which makes it hard for him to contradict Dean on almost anything. 

Over the years, Castiel has gotten particularly good at contradicting Dean on almost everything, but… Well, that’s not happening, for obvious reasons. 

So the unenviable task of talking to Dean falls to Sam. 

“Is it time for my scolding?” Dean asks as Sam settles on the edge of his desk. He feels like a child sent to his room, an impression that he does not help by throwing himself onto the bed with his arms crossed. 

Sam shrugs. “You’ve got them all pretty upset,” he comments neutrally. “Eileen’s pissed at you. Cas stormed off; he doesn’t want anything to do with us. Jack’s upset because none of the adults in his life have it together, and you seem to have forgotten that I lost a best friend too.” 

The longer Sam speaks, the sharper his voice becomes. By the end, he might as well be spitting razor blades. Dean flinches under the words, but he doesn’t try to fight back. Sam’s right. Sam’s right and he’s wrong, and what’s so unusual about that? 

He says something along those lines. Sam’s roll of his eyes is so massive, Dean’s surprised the foundation of the bunker doesn’t shift in response. “All right, enough with the pity party, self-flagellating crap! It’s not helping anyone, and if he were here,” Sam falters but only a little, “then Cas would tell you to knock it the fuck off.” 

“What the fuck am I supposed to do, Sammy?” Dean addresses his words to the ceiling, but he can feel the weight of Sam’s gaze on him. “I mean, you heard it yourself: Castiel doesn’t want to come back. Rowena and Jack tried to get him to come back, and he wouldn’t take the bait. I don’t know how the fuck else I’m supposed to interpret that.” 

“Well, if you’d bothered to stick around without showing your ass, you might have heard what Rowena was going to say next.” Dean drags his eyes back down to Sam. When Sam refuses to speak, Dean prompts him with a pointed lift of his eyebrows. 

“Well, you already said it yourself--we sent Jack and Rowena looking for him because it made the most sense. They’re the most powerful and stood the best chance of finding him. Under normal circumstances, if Cas was contacted by either of them, he’d come back.” 

When Dean tries to say something, Sam cuts him off with a sharp gesture of his hand. “Under  _ normal _ circumstances.” Dean stares stonily back at him. Sam runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Are you kidding me? You don’t think Cas would want to come back?” Dean stares, unblinking, and Sam lets a tiny, disbelieving laugh escape. “Castiel? Castiel, who got exploded not once, but  _ twice  _ by an archangel, Castiel who got torn apart by Leviathans and walked out of a river minutes later? Castiel who turned down an army for a single guy? Castiel who  _ annoyed a cosmic entity  _ so much it spit him out _? That  _ Castiel? Any of this ringing a bell?” 

“I heard what Rowena said, same as you--” Dean starts, only to fall into a startled silence as Sam slams his fist against the desk. 

“Enough! I mean,  _ enough _ already! God!” Sam glares at him. “If you really think Cas wouldn’t be fighting tooth and nail to get back to  _ us _ ,” Sam puts a significant pause on the word  _ us _ , “then you’re stupider than I thought.” 

“Right, well, you’ve cheered me right up Sam. Thanks so much. There’s the door.” Dean jerks his thumb at the door before he rolls onto his back and begins an intense perusal of the ceiling. 

Sam’s anger is a palpable presence. It pushes against Dean’s fury, like two fronts of a storm colliding. It’s hard to breathe with the air as thick as it is, but somehow, Dean’s lungs keep working.

“Rowena thinks we’ve been using the wrong people and we need someone else. Someone Cas is closer to.” 

“Closer than Jack?” 

“Closer.” 

Dean doesn’t care much for Sam’s tone or what it implies. He remembers, all too well, Cas’ words from years and years ago-- _ Dean and I do share a more profound bond _ . At the time, that sentiment had been uncomfortable, like an itch that never quite went away, no matter how hard he scratched. Remembering them later was like a punch to the gut. And thinking about them now… Dean’s had bullet wounds hurt less. 

“So you want to send me digging around in Cas’ head.” Sam nods. “And you think that’s going to help?” 

Sam shrugs. “I can see the logic. If Cas really is in deep, then it makes sense that he wouldn’t come out for Rowena. He might need something...someone else to shake him loose.” 

Hope is such a dangerous thing. In his world, sometimes hope gets you killed faster than bullets or fangs, or anything else with teeth and claws. 

And yet, Dean can’t smother the persistent little glow nestled in his chest. 

“What do you want me to do?” 

Cas is escorted, fuming, back into the library by Eileen. When his eyes light on Dean, he’s surprised he doesn’t drop dead from the sheer poison in those eyes.

With one hand on his shoulder, Eileen guides Cas into a chair. “Stay,” she says, putting some force into her voice. When he still tries to get up, she shoves down, with all the strength that a woman who routinely beheads vampires possesses. “I said stay.” This time her voice lacks any sympathy. 

Cas glares at Dean with extreme prejudice as Rowena and Sam dart around the room, renewing the sigils on the wall. Jack helps by handing out materials, as he listens attentively to Rowena’s instructions. Eileen stays close by, in case of an escape attempt, Dean assumes. 

“This isn’t going to do anything,” Cas tells Dean as Jack starts to read. Gone is the man from the previous night, sloppy drunk and tender with it, who touched Dean like he was something fragile. In his place is someone who spits venom and whose glares could kill. “I’m not who you’re looking for,” Cas tells him. The scent of burning herbs spreads through the room. 

“We’ll see about that,” Dean says, but his words are lost as the world fuzzes out around them.

Dean blinks. Then he looks around his surroundings and blinks again. 

“Oh hell no,” he says, to anyone who’s listening. “What the--this isn’t anything worth seeing!” 

He shouts the words to the unfeeling stars shining in the inky black sky. The stars ignore him, as stars tend to do. Finally, resigned to his fate, Dean looks at the scene before him. 

Next to an abandoned house, in a secluded glade, sits the Impala. Trees crowd in close around the car, low-hanging branches brushing the roof. Gravel crunches under Dean’s boots as, drawn by an instinct other than his own, he walks forward. 

Next to him, footsteps rustle through the leaves. Dean looks over to find Cas standing next to him. Immediately, he understands what Rowena meant.

There’s a difference between this Cas and the Cas who has been staying in the bunker for the past few days. There’s something different in the way he moves, something in how he looks at the world around him, the way he holds his shoulders like he has the burdens of the world pressing down on him. The man standing in front of him is not fully Castiel, but it’s closer than he’s come in days. 

“What’s this?” Cas asks. 

Dean’s mouth goes dry as he whips his head around to stare at Cas. “You don’t know?” Hurt and horror mingle within him as he watches Cas walk forward. 

“How would I know?” 

Cas’ voice is sharp with frustration. The certainty of his sentiments is absolute. It shakes Dean to the core, enough so that when he finds himself unexpectedly in the back seat of the Impala, he doesn’t really bother to question it. 

He doesn’t want to look. He already knows what he’ll find. But he finds that he can’t help but look, drawn to disaster as helpless as a moth to the flame. Next to him, Cas’ eyes are fixed unblinking at the tableau unfolding in front of them. 

In the front seat, a much younger Dean pretends to look through the window while he eyes Castiel. He pretends like he hasn’t thought about what would happen if he ever got Castiel alone in the Impala. Pretends like when he said  _ you are not dying a virgin  _ earlier that night, he wasn’t picturing himself in the opposite starring role. 

“Why are we still sitting here?” Castiel asks. Meanwhile, in the backseat, Cas shifts. His thigh presses against Dean’s in a long line of warmth.

In the front seat, Dean swallows so hard that the movement is visible from the back. Dean sees how the tip of his tongue comes out to flirt with his lower lip. He remembers how he felt at that moment, like he was ready to vibrate out of his skin, like the whole world was waiting on edge to see what choice Dean Winchester would make next. 

He watches his hand wrap around the supple leather of the steering wheel before turning to face Castiel. “We need to go and prepare for Raphael’s visit, but we’re just sitting here,” Castiel continues, a slight accusation in his voice. “Why?”

Dean remembers making the decision. He remembers the terror and exhilaration rushing through his blood, like bungee-jumping without a safety cord. He remembers how Cas’ eyes caught the slivers of moonlight slicing through the windshield. He remembers how the words tasted on his lips when he asked, “You trust me, Cas?”

And he could have been asking about anything. He and Cas lived dangerous sorts of lives, where trust was paramount to survival. They were about to face an archangel; a task which could leave Dean in the hands of the enemy and Castiel nothing more than a spatter on the ceiling. 

And yet. When Castiel turns to look at Dean, there’s not a shred of doubt in his eyes. 

“Of course.” Castiel’s mouth opens and both Dean’s older and younger self examine the soft curve of his lips. 

In the backseat, Dean watches his younger self lean closer to Castiel. He watches his hand settle on Castiel’s knee. But more importantly, he watches Castiel. He watches how Castiel blinks, quick and shocked as Dean slides into his personal space, how a minute tremor races through Castiel as Dean’s free hand lands on the back of his neck and his fingers card through the thick hair at the base of his skull. He watches the stunned, awed look on Castiel’s face and wonders at how stupid he was that he never saw it before. 

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, urgent and awful, as he watches his younger self thumb over the apple of Castiel’s cheek. “Cas, why are we here? Why is this--”

But Cas won’t answer him, his attention stolen by the two in the front seat. “I said that you weren’t going to die a virgin,” the younger Dean murmurs. It’s a terrible line on anyone, worse on an angel, but Castiel doesn’t shove him away as Dean leans closer, purpose clear in his face. No, Castiel just closes his eyes as he tilts his head. 

Dean remembers how it felt, kissing Castiel for the first time. The taste of him, like a summer rainstorm. The sharp scent of ozone spilling through the interior of the Impala, the scratchy feel of Castiel’s stubble against Dean’s chin and cheeks. The soft, surprised noises Castiel released as Dean traced his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. The warmth of him, the way Castiel’s hands had fluttered around his body, like birds too nervous to land.

He remembers viscerally what happened next. His lips map out the contours of Cas’ jaw, Cas’ stubble scraping against his lips until they were raw. Cas’ fingers spasm on Dean’s shoulder before he reaches up to cup Dean’s face. “Dean,” he pants, his already low voice turned subsonic. “Dean!” he cries out as Dean’s hand slips under his jacket to palm at the hard lines of his back. 

Slick, wet sounds fill the Impala as lips meet again. They mingle with harsh pants and quick breaths and the squeak of leather as Dean and Castiel shift. At a nudge from Dean, Castiel’s legs fall open, leaving a space wide enough for Dean to slot himself into. 

In the backseat, Dean squirms. He wants to look away,  _ god,  _ he wants to look away. He doesn’t want to see one of the best moments of his life plastered in front of him like some tawdry display. It was...it was  _ more  _ than this, more than his hands sliding over Castiel’s thighs, more than Castiel’s head tipping back to bare the long line of his throat and thunking against the glass of the window. He and Cas shouldn’t be here.  _ No one  _ should be looking at this. 

And yet, Dean can’t draw his eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of him. He can’t stop watching the desperate kisses traded back and forth, can’t help but drink in just how Castiel’s hands traced along his body. “This okay?” Dean hears himself murmur, and he remembers how Castiel had trembled underneath his touch when he’d trailed his fingers along Castiel’s inner thigh to cup the hard length of him in his hand. 

Even from the backseat, Dean can catch the glow of Castiel’s eyes as he peers down at Dean. He licks his lips, considering, before he nods. “Yes,” Castiel says, voice turning into a low groan as Dean increases the pressure. “Yes, please.” 

“Cas,” Dean says. He’s desperate for attention, for escape--anything that will allow him to avoid what happens next. The sound of the zipper releasing echoes through the car. Moments later, Castiel muffles a sharp yelp against the back of his hand, while the heavy, smothered moans mixed with the slick wet sound of lips against flesh leave no doubt as to what Dean is doing. 

“Cas, why are we here?” He’s failed. He’s stuck here in this car, with one of the most private memories of his life on display and he can’t stop looking at Castiel. At the time, he never took time to notice how Castiel caught his lower lip between his teeth, or how Castiel’s fist clenched. He’d felt the subtle shifts of Castiel’s hips, but he never noticed how Castiel’s chest heaved as he gulped for unnecessary oxygen. 

“Why, Cas?” Dean says, sharper, so he can chase away the memories--Castiel in his mouth, the heavy welcome weight of him on his tongue, Castiel’s hands combing through his hair. Castiel’s thighs tightening around him, the tremors that shook through his body. The short, involuntary pants and grunts that filled the Impala, the taste of Castiel bursting across his tongue. The quiver of Castiel’s belly just before he came--

“Why are we  _ here? _ ” Dean snaps, just as Castiel throws his head back, crying aloud his pleasure to the roof of the Impala, just as the world compresses and shifts around him--

Relief floods through Dean, but only for a split-second. His brain, with instincts honed from years of hunting, almost immediately places the room. 

Rexford, Idaho. 

He doesn’t want to be here either. 

“Cas.” 

Cas stands next to him in the entrance of the motel room. His face is impassive as he watches another version of Dean come out of the bathroom, gauze in his hands and a bottle of rotgut tucked into the crook of his elbow. Both Dean’s gazes are drawn to Castiel. Always to Castiel, who sits on the edge of the bed, his broken and bleeding hand cradled in his lap. 

“Take a sip.” Dean shakes the bottle at Castiel for emphasis. With slow, stilted movements, Castiel takes the bottle. He looks at it for a second, his eyes hooded and lost, before he tucks the bottle between his knees and unscrews the lid with painstaking effort. 

“These aren’t really deep enough to stitch,” Dean says as he examines Castiel’s hand. “Lucky thing.” 

“Yes,” Castiel murmurs, his eyes fixed on a point far beyond Dean’s shoulder. “Lucky.” 

Dean knows what comes next. He knows, he can still remember it. Hell, if the dream is vivid enough and he’s approaching the wrong side of sober, he can still  _ feel  _ it. “Get us out of here,” he tells Cas.

“I don’t have… I can’t control it,” Cas tells him, but there’s a hitch in his voice, a hesitation Dean pounces on. 

He turns away from the Dean and Castiel in front of them, but not in time to miss Castiel cupping Dean’s face while Dean grips Castiel’s thighs. Dean had ducked his head because he couldn’t bear looking at what happened to Castiel, at what  _ he did  _ to Castiel. He hadn’t wanted to look up and see anger, or worse, forgiveness in Castiel’s eyes. It was easier for him to lean in and press his lips to the hollow of Castiel’s throat, easier for him to slide his hands up from Castiel’s thighs to his hips and press until Castiel had no choice but to fall back onto the mattress. 

Dean turns his back on all of this; he tries to ignore the whisper of fingers working buttons through cloth and focuses instead on Cas--the faint pink blush rising on his cheeks, the bright glimmer of his eyes, the soft surprised shape his mouth takes. 

“Why are we here? What’s the point in...in... _ this?” _

The Impala had been the first time he’d dared to kiss Castiel. He’d gotten it all then, or so he’d thought--his hands on Cas’ hips, the sound of Cas’ moans filling the interior, the feel of Cas stretching his lips and the ache in his jaw. He’d done his best to keep his promise to Cas-- _ you are not going to die a virgin _ \--but in the end, it had been what all car sex was: rushed and uncomfortable, hovering on the potential of awesome, but missing some key element. 

Rexford...Rexford had been the last. 

When he’d kissed Cas in that hotel room, Cas’ bleeding hand between them like an accusation, Dean had known it would be the last time. Too much was broken between him and Castiel to ever be fixed. Even as he was working his way up Castiel’s chest, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over too-fragile human skin, he knew that he was breaking them even further apart. But he hadn’t stopped, and Cas had never said  _ no.  _

The first time and the last time, and a handful of times in between--the night before Carthage, Missouri, when Dean could feel his clock ticking down and needed a distraction (he’d shoved Cas up against the shell of a car in Bobby’s yard, put a hand over his mouth and said  _ Quiet _ before he’d dropped to his knees right there on the gravel; the hard pull of Cas’ fingers in his hair let him know he was  _ alive).  _ Once, the night before Sam said yes to Lucifer (Dean had been mostly drunk, which meant that he was partly sober, which meant that when he hauled Cas in by his stupid tie and whispered  _ Please _ there was never any second-guessing about the kisses Cas bit into his skin, the bruises that lingered even after Stull). 

There had been the time in that long, awful year, when Sam was cold and distant and Dean hadn’t known why and Cas stopped in for a brief moment ( _ Stay,  _ Dean had contemplated asking as he stared at Castiel’s unblinking face, turned towards the heavens and already listening to words only he could hear.  _ Please stay with me, I don’t want to do this on my own.  _ But he’d never asked and when Castiel had turned to him and said  _ I have to go; they need me,  _ Dean had never protested, had only run his hands over the faint impression of Castiel’s body in the bed until all the warmth had faded from the sheets). And there had been Purgatory ( _ I’m not leaving without you _ pressed into Cas’ skin, until the words came like a reflex, muffling his cries into the skin of Cas’ neck, his arm against Cas’ chest, pressing him into a tree as his hands dipped past the elastic waistband of Cas’ pants). 

And Rexford was the last (Dean taking Cas into his mouth, an apology for everything that he couldn’t say, Cas’ toes curling into the bedspread as his fingers clenched into fists by his head, Cas’ legs over his shoulders as Dean’s slick fingers worked between his cheeks, Cas’ half-stifled groans as Dean’s fingers twisted inside him, the barely audible  _ please  _ that fell from his lips as Dean hovered over him, arms caging in Cas like he was never going to let him go. Cas’ face slack in pleasure as Dean pushed inside him in one slow, long slide, the way Cas’ hands had clutched him closer. The desperate kisses shared between them, Dean trying to hold onto the moment and stave off orgasm at the same time he was begging Cas to come, Cas coming with his eyes shut and a low, broken moan, Dean burying his face in Cas’ chest as he came because he couldn’t bear to look down and see the mess he’d made of them). 

“Why show me any of this? What’s the point?” 

“I don’t have any control--” Cas runs his fingers through his hair. He looks sincere enough, but there’s a shrill note to his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself as well as Dean. “I don’t want to see any of this!” He motions to where the two bodies are entwined on the bed, Dean’s fingers fisted in Castiel’s hair as Castiel’s legs wrap around his waist. “I don’t...I want to go home!”

“You can’t! You can’t go home! When are you going to get it through your thick skull, that it’s not real? This is what’s real!” Dean points at the bed. His shouts are louder than anything else in the room--Castiel’s low groans as Dean’s fingers work inside him, certainly louder than the stifled moans Dean tries to smother in Castiel’s skin. 

“This never happened!” Cas’ eyes as he glances back and forth between the Dean in front of him and the Dean of years ago. The Dean who pushes into Castiel, knowing that he wants him, knowing that he  _ loves  _ him, knowing that he doesn’t deserve him, knowing that this is  _ it  _ and still wanting everything that he can have--

“You said it yourself.” Cas’ hands fist in his hair. “You’re not together. You said, you said that you weren’t, so this--” On the bed, Castiel’s back arches and Dean leans down to suck a kiss into the vulnerable flesh of his throat. Cas laughs, disbelieving. “This can’t be real because Dean...Dean would never let me go and I wouldn’t, I’d never leave him,  _ never--”  _

There’s no way that Cas can know how deeply those words cut, except for that glint in the back of his eye, the one that tells Dean that he knows more than he’s letting on. 

“Why the fuck would you bring us here, huh, Cas?” Dean rounds on his victim again, unable to stop the quick bubbling of rage in his gut. “What are you trying to say?” 

“I’m not trying to say  _ anything!  _ I don’t want to be here, I want to go  _ home--”  _

Cas’ voice rises in pitch and volume and Dean winces just before the lamp in the corner blows with a shower of sparks. It’s an automatic reaction for Dean to twist, putting himself between the shards of glass and Cas. The sound doesn’t disturb the pair on the bed, but it sends Dean’s pulse skyrocketing. 

He hasn’t seen a light show like that since…

“Castiel?” he whispers, searching in those blue eyes for a celestial flame, for  _ anything-- _

And then he blinks and he’s surrounded by the walls of the bunker. 

“I’m not sure if there’s anything left to do,” Rowena says later. 

“If you, Jack, and I have tried and we still haven’t found any success, it might be…” Rowena’s eyes dart to the side in an uncharacteristic display of hesitation. “Look, it was a whopping great curse that Castiel got hit with. It’s possible it did its job better than I first thought.” 

“What...what are you trying to say?” 

Rowena’s eyes flick to Sam for just a moment before they focus back on Dean. He stares back at her, jaw clenched so tightly that he feels the ache all through his skull. His fingernails dig through the thick fabric of his jeans to the point where he knows that he’ll have bruises later. 

“It might not be that Castiel doesn’t want to come back. It might be that there's not  _ enough _ of Castiel to come back.” 

The words echo through Dean’s skull long after the rest of the bunker has gone to bed. 

This time, Cas doesn’t come to his room, which is fine. Dean has other things on his mind than coddling a pale imitation. 

_ Castiel might not want to come back. Castiel might not be able to come back.  _

And then Cas, earlier today-- _ Dean would never let me go. I would never leave him.  _

Which of those statements are true? 

What if they all are? 

He can’t stop thinking of Cas’ unwavering belief that his Dean would move heaven and earth in order to get back to him. Cas’ surety that he’d never leave Dean, not for anything. Cas’ single minded desire to return to his Dean, to the point of stupidity and beyond.

He doesn’t think Castiel has had that kind of faith in him in years. Even after he and Castiel found some kind of peace with each other and buried their respective hatchets, there’s still a reserve in the way Castiel treats him, a distance between them that wasn’t there before. He still remembers Castiel standing in front of that warehouse in Van Nuys, a boxcutter in his hand, ready to cut into his own skin because he had so little faith in Dean. He walked into that warehouse, knowing that the chances of him coming back out were slim, but Dean had managed to break him down so much that Castiel considered that the better option. 

He’s spent years disappointing Castiel, and Castiel has spent years hurting him. 

What if they’re all the truth? 

What if Castiel is waiting for Dean to bring him back to a home he’s not certain he wants, all the while thinking there’s no way that he can return? What if they’re both trying to reach each other, while at the same time thinking the other doesn’t want to be found? 

He left Castiel behind in the warehouse in Van Nuys. He left him behind while he was with Lisa. He left him for dead in that reservoir, he left him behind in Purgatory, he kicked him out of the bunker when he was human, he beat him half to death and left him for dead on the floor, he let Lucifer wear Castiel like a second hand prom dress, he watched Castiel  _ die,  _ he left Castiel in Hell’s prison for weeks, and then he let Michael crawl right on inside him. 

There are actions he can never undo, words he can never take back.  _ You’re dead to me  _ echoes through the hollow caverns of his chest. Even though he forgave Castiel, even though Castiel said he forgave him… Dean’s not stupid enough to believe he can erase those wounds. They stay between them, knife sharp and just as deadly.

_ Why aren’t you together?  _

Cas would never leave him, and Dean would never let Cas go. 

And then Dean knows what he has to do.

Once again, Cas spends hours trying to find enough comfort that he can fool himself into slumber. He finally falls into a fitful, restless sleep, skin longing for the warmth of his husband. He’s barely managed to slip into slumber when a hand clamps over his mouth. 

Cas wakes in a panic, lungs working overtime. He flails wildly, trying to free himself, but his captor has forearms made of steel. He tries to scream, but the sound is smothered underneath his attacker’s palm. 

“Calm down, jesus. You’re going to pass out.” 

Cas relaxes as he recognizes the voice, but only just. He doesn’t dare trust this Dean; he still remembers the bright flare of pain that raced through his joints when Dean twisted his arm behind his back. 

The darkness of the room turns Dean’s face into something foreign and frightening. No matter the physical resemblances between the two, no matter how much he  _ thinks _ they might be the same… This Dean could never be his. 

“You want to go back home, right?” 

Cas waits for a trap. For Dean to mock him, or Rowena to burst through the door laughing at his gullibility, but nothing happens. There’s only the silence of the room between the two of them, the rasp of Dean’s callouses against his mouth. Finally, Cas nods slowly. 

Dean’s teeth flash white in the darkness. “All right. Well then, come with me.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	6. part six

~*~*~*~*~*~*

****

  
  


It only takes Dean a few minutes to find the equipment he needs. It takes him a little longer to set it up; he’s only done this once before and he was under a decent amount of stress at the time. Cas makes a more pliable subject than his brainwashed mother, but the same sense of urgency remains. He knows he only has a short amount of time before Sam wakes up, and there’s no way that Sam will let him rummage around in Cas’ head like this. 

As always, the clock is ticking. 

Cas watches Dean with sharp, suspicious eyes, but he never flinches as Dean attaches the electrodes to his temples and forehead. “And this will be able to get me back home?” 

Dean flips the switches on the box. The machine whirs to life and Dean’s skin tingles with anticipation. “Yeah,” he says. He can’t quite bring himself to meet Cas’ eyes. He’s afraid of the doubt he’ll see there, but more afraid of the trust. “Yeah, this will take care of you.” 

“Right.” Cas drawls out the word, but never moves, though he watches Dean’s movements with eagle-sharp eyes. The gel on the electrodes is cold as Dean presses it to his skin, but he doesn’t dare pause. If Sam, Eileen, or Jack were to come out here, they would stop him, and that can’t happen. 

Rowena’s the most powerful witch that they’ve ever met, but her spell relies on the idea that Cas wants them poking around in his skull. As evidenced several times, Cas does  _ not  _ want them poking around in his skull, so drastic action must be taken. 

The device that the Men of Letters created is brutal in its efficiency. With the machine forcing a connection, Cas can’t throw him out, even if he wants to. No matter how hard Cas fights against it, in a few minutes, Dean will have an all access pass to his mind, and he’s not leaving until he wants to, no matter how hard Cas will struggle against him. 

And Dean can already predict that Cas will struggle.

Guilt squirms uncomfortably in the pit of his belly when he looks at Cas. His eyes are closed and his fingers clench and release against the arms of the chair. A small muscle ticks in the corner of his jaw. Dean watches as Cas makes a conscious effort to relax his muscles. 

“Will this hurt?” Cas murmurs, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. 

Dean pauses. The guilt comes again, stronger than before. If he succeeds, this version of Cas, with his husband and his children and his career, will cease to exist. 

“No,” he says, before he affixes the electrodes to his own temples. “No, it’s not going to hurt.” 

The lie sticks sour in his teeth, even as he flips the switch on the machine and his world flashes into darkness. 

Being yanked out of the world and shoved into someone else’s thoughts is never a sensation Dean will become accustomed to. He blinks and turns slowly on the spot as he tries to figure out where Cas’ mind has put them. It's only when he sees the slowly spreading joy on Cas’ face that he understands. 

“You did it,” Cas breathes as he looks around his kitchen. The worry lines fade from his face and Dean gets a look at what Cas would look like if he were truly, purely, incandescently happy. He’s never seen that look on Cas’ face before, Dean realizes. His stomach sinks with the realization. 

“I didn’t think you would ever do it, but... “ Cas turns on the spot before he runs a loving finger over a small nick in the counter. “God.” 

As Dean watches him, a horrible certainty settles over him. He knows what he has to do. In fact, he’s known it since he found the equipment. 

It’s child’s play for him to come up behind Cas. Castiel would notice, because Castiel is a soldier and a warrior and always aware of his surroundings, but also because Castiel is always aware of Dean’s location. 

“So now you can go home--”

Cas’ words are cut off by Dean’s arm snaking around his neck. It’s a hold Dean’s practiced ever since he was eleven years old; his father made sure he could do it on men who were twice his size. Putting a civilian in a chokehold is almost painfully easy. 

Cas wheezes. His hands scrabble at Dean’s arm, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. It doesn’t help him. Dean’s left hand pushes down on the back of Cas’ head, shoving him further into the hold and cutting off more of his oxygen. In desperation, Cas’ legs kick out, striking nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs, tightening the hold. His stomach twists in guilt as he hears Cas’ labored attempts at breathing. “God, I’m sorry.” 

Cas doesn’t say anything. With pressure on his carotid artery and jugular, he can’t. His grip slackens until his fingers fall away from Dean’s arm. After a few seconds, when he slumps bonelessly backwards, Dean releases the hold. 

He hauls Cas’ dead weight to the couch, taking the time to shove a pillow under Cas’ head. It’s the least the poor guy deserves. 

Guilt gnaws at Dean’s heels as he steps away. He tells himself it’s ridiculous, but as he looks down at Cas’ unconscious form, thinks of how Cas’ desperate struggle for freedom juxtaposed with his joy at being back home, all Dean can feel is regret. 

He wasn’t real. None of this was real. This Cas was just something thrown up by Castiel’s mind in an attempt to save himself. The family, the house, the perfect life...lies, all of it. And they were lies that were keeping Dean from finding the real Castiel. 

He refuses to believe Castiel is gone. And now, with Cas out of the way, Dean’s free to search, without anything holding him back. 

With one last glance down at Cas, Dean walks out of the house. He pretends not to flinch when it vanishes behind him, leaving him in darkness. 

Dean wanders. It’s all he can do. There are no roadmaps here, no conveniently placed signs telling him where to go. He listens for the slightest hint of Castiel, but he can’t feel anything. 

Urgency dogs his steps. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the bunker’s inhabitants start looking for him and Cas. The moment they’re discovered, his little experiment ends, and with it, his best chance of finding any shred of Castiel. As is often the case with his life, Dean’s put all of his eggs in one basket and it’s starting to wobble precariously. 

He dares to shout “Cas?” into the darkness, but his voice echoes back at him from odd angles, distorted until it sounds like thirty people are shouting back and his own voice is unrecognizable. A cold tendril of foreboding creeps down his spine, and Dean doesn’t shout anymore. 

So he walks. And as he walks, he thinks. He thinks about what he’s going to do when he finally finds Cas (give him a good hard shake for being such an ass) or what they’re going to do when they both finally emerge into the harsh light of day (apologize, throw himself down on the ground and beg for Cas’ mercy). 

And those options are well and good, but they mean absolutely dick if he doesn’t find Cas. 

He’s just ready to open his mouth and bellow out for Cas again, spectators be damned, when he catches a faint whiff of something. It’s more of a feeling than anything else, but it’s more than he’s had to go on for what feels like years, so Dean heads that direction. 

The world starts to fill in as he continues to walk. It’s hardly noticeable, but he takes a step and there’s a hint of color. He takes another step and sound starts to bleed through. Another step and shapes begin to form out of shadows. Before long, a room forms in front of him. 

He can hear the sharp sound of voices arguing as he moves closer. When he gets close enough, he can pick out individual words. It’s then that he wants to run, because he recognizes this fight. Recognizes the walls around him and his stance. He’s carefully placed himself in front of Sam, angled away from Cas, and the message couldn’t be clearer:  _ us vs. you. Stay away. You’re not part of us.  _

And Cas just  _ stands  _ there on the opposite side of the room. He’s left himself open and vulnerable and he just  _ takes  _ it. He absorbs Dean’s anger and venom and never asks for mercy. He only flinches once, when Dean spits out  _ You’re dead to me.  _ Now, stuck inside Cas’ mind, Dean knows it’s because those were the only words to surprise him. 

Cas expected every other morsel of hate from him. The pain from that statement is enough to leave Dean reeling. 

He’s apologized. He’s done his best to heal the wounds those words caused. He’s told Cas, over and over again, that that’s not how he feels about him, and he’d thought Cas believed him. 

But it doesn’t help here in this moment, where Dean’s trapped in feeling everything that Cas feels. 

The hurt, the despair, the grief, the gut-curdling realization that he’s watching his family crumble into nothing right in front of him… Dean feels every second of it. 

And he thinks he finally understands what’s been keeping Castiel away. 

It’s like walking through a forest of his worst nightmares. 

Every time the world solidifies, Dean’s treated to another memory. He’s sifting through an album of Castiel’s Worst Hits, played for him in high definition and in no particular order, complete with emotions Dean never wanted. 

He watches Hannah die in front of Cas, while he was too out of his mind to stop it. He feels Cas’ horror as, controlled from afar by Naomi, he kills Samandriel, and then he feels Cas’ terror as the gleaming steel instruments dig into his skull over and over again, until Cas barely remembers his own name. He suffers through every second of the Leviathan writhing inside Castiel, chipping away at his vessel and grace, until Castiel ceased to exist. He experiences every awful second when Cas is strapped into the chair and Metatron slices his throat. He feels the same overwhelming loss, the gaping hole left, and he knows that no matter what happens, he’ll never be the same, never be as  _ good.  _

Dean falls to his knees, panting as the onslaught ends. It’s too much. Cas has to know that it’s too much for him. “Cas!” he calls, twisting his fingers into his hair and tugging until bright pain flashes behind his eyes. “Cas, please!” 

He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for--a reprieve? Castiel? Forgiveness? 

But then the curtain draws back on Act Two, and Dean is treated to something even more horrific than Castiel’s Worst Hits. 

Because these are Dean Winchester’s Worst Hits, played for him in Technicolor with surround sound, and he gets to see just how many times he’s hurt Cas over the years. Better yet, now he gets to  _ feel  _ it. 

He gets to feel the slow, cold curl of abandonment as he kicks a newly human Cas out of the bunker. He feels Cas’ confusion as Dean shoves a couple hundred dollars into his hands, along with a duffel bag and a bus ticket. He feels Cas’ loss with another, darker edge--Cas thought finally, Dean would want him. That without the barrier of a  _ multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent _ , he and Dean could finally…

But then the truth hits, cold and brutal as only the truth is: Castiel has only ever been worth what he could do. As he is, human and weak, there’s little purpose to him. He’s useless in the subsequent fight. It’s his fault that there’s a fight to begin with. 

What else was he expecting? 

“No, no, dammit Cas!” Dean shouts after Cas’ retreating back. “It’s not--It’s never been like that!” 

But hasn’t it always been like that? Hasn’t Dean always couched his language to Castiel in terms of  _ need _ and not  _ want?  _ Hasn’t the mission always been on the forefront of his mind, always? Get the job done? Finish the case and then worry about everything else? And then, when Cas leaves after the case is done...what else is there to finish? 

_ There is nothing for you back there,  _ The Empty whispers to Cas, and Dean feels the moment where Cas accepts the truth of those words and chooses to keep fighting anyway. 

And then Cas’ mind circles around Lucifer, and the Cage, and everything that happened afterward. That moment when Castiel, the strategist, looked at all the pieces of the puzzle, examined all possible outcomes, and saw only one where everyone survived. And he opened his mouth and he said  _ Yes.  _

Except Cas forgot a variable in his calculations, because he never considered himself. He never imagined his own emotions, trembling frail things that they were, could be used against him, by someone who wielded love like a scalpel.

Dean watches as Lucifer discovers the flaw in the math and pounces with child-like glee. He watches as Lucifer, stymied by the Darkness and bored by Hell, takes every opportunity to torture Cas in a twisted game where Cas never held any of the cards. 

“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real!” Dean shouts, over visions of Castiel standing over Sam and Dean’s corpses, over scenarios where he plunges his hand through Dean’s chest and rips out his heart. Desperate for entertainment, Lucifer cuts a swath through Hell, and, with blood dripping from his hands, tells Castiel that it’ll be his fault when the world tumbles into chaos and brimstone, and Castiel, caught in a prison of his own mind,  _ screams-- _

Dean screams right along with him. 

The memories of Lucifer subside, and Dean’s never been so happy for the forgiving embrace of darkness. He pants, wrung out and empty, but forces his body onward. He hasn’t found Cas yet, and if there’s anything that these nightmares have shown him, it’s that he  _ needs  _ to find Cas. He has to tell Cas how important he is, how  _ much _ Dean wants him, how  _ long  _ Dean has wanted him…

The soft glow begins again, and Dean winces, prepared for another barrage. 

He’s in his own room in the bunker, but it’s a version of his room he’s never experienced. There are two dressers crowded into his bedroom, two sets of boots by the door. There are two bedside tables and two lamps. His whole room has been bathed in duality. Dean looks at the bed and sees himself in it, sheets tucked demurely around his waist. Then he sees the blanket shift and, with a shock of understanding, grasps the reason for the furniture. 

Cas crawls up from underneath the covers to rest his chin on Dean’s bare stomach. It doesn’t take a genius to add his position, his flushed cheeks and soppy grin, and his rucked up hair together and come up with four. The Dean in the bed runs an affectionate hand through Cas’ hair. 

“I thought you said that you were tired?” he asks. The words sound harsh, but the way that Dean’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s asking the question makes them anything but. 

Cas grins and kisses the soft part of Dean’s belly, the pudge Dean swears he’s going to work on but never quite finds the time. 

“Not too tired for that,” he answers. 

“Yeah, yeah, you letch.” Fondness seeps from Dean’s voice as he sweeps over Cas’ hair and trails his fingers down his cheek. “Come up here before you fall asleep, would you?”

“You know, for someone who just had a fairly decent orgasm, you’re very bossy,” Cas says, even as he slides off of Dean and slithers up the mattress. Dean’s arm falls to his side and Cas rolls into the open space it provides. They move with the surety of practice, and it’s all so damn easy that Dean’s chest breaks open as a surge of raw yearning sweeps over him. 

“Did you set the alarm?” Cas asks, half-asleep. 

“Hell no,” Dean answers, rolling over so that he’s facing Cas. “If Sam and Eileen want our help on that stupid skinwalker case, they can come in here and ask us ourselves.” 

A smile tugs at the corner of Cas’ mouth. “You shouldn’t actively try to traumatize your brother,” he begins, but anything else he might have said is lost as his breathing deepens into sleep. 

Dean watches him for a moment more. He doesn’t recognize the sappy look on his face, but it sits naturally on his features. “‘I’m not tired,’ my ass,” he gently mocks, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to Cas’ forehead. “Night, you grumpy bastard.” 

The edges of the room start to blur in that depressingly familiar way, and no matter how many times Dean asks it not to, the vision fades. He digs his fingernails into his palms as he tries to hold onto the image of Cas’ loose, easy smile, the thoughtless way that Dean made space for him, the comfortable routines the two of them had worked out for themselves. 

Unlike the saccharine sweetness of Cas’ fake world, this possibility _hurts_ , because it’s so very easy to believe in it. Trading easy blowjobs with Cas after a hunt, falling asleep with Cas--Dean _wants,_ with a ferocity so strong he can taste it in the back of his mouth. 

It would have been that easy, if he’d gone after it. That fucking easy. 

He catches other snippets--him slipping into the shower after Cas, Cas shoving him away and flicking shampoo bubbles at him. Dean sliding Cas a beer bottle and Cas accepting without taking his eyes away from the book he’s reading. Dean, curled up in bed on his phone, while Cas flips through a paperback. Dean, licking his thumb before he scrubs at a stray bit of blood on Cas’ forehead. Dean yawning and tossing the keys to Cas before settling into the passenger seat. Cas, sliding into the Impala and starting the drive that leads them home. 

The headlights of the Impala disappear into the darkness, and Dean is scraped raw. There’s nothing else for him to feel; Castiel has taken it all. 

He wants, with a sudden, childish passion, to go  _ home.  _ He’s not even sure where that would be. The bunker maybe, or the Impala, or the two-story house he can only recall in dim snippets. It’s not the place, but the  _ sensation  _ he’s chasing--a feeling of belonging, of safety and security, of acceptance, devotion…

Cas, Dean realizes, with a quick gut-shot of certainty. 

It’s always been Castiel he’s been chasing. 

“Cas,” Dean chokes out. The words try to clog his throat but Dean forces them out. It feels like he’s coughing up knives and bile, but in a way, it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Cas, I’m so sorry. I never told you. I never said how much I wanted you here. How much I needed you. Not for any kind of case, but just because…” A tight iron band constricts around his chest, but Dean’s done with that, done with swallowing his words and feelings until they rot and fester in the black pit of his chest. 

“I need you,” he finally says, and he tastes Purgatory in the words, feels the sharp bite of copper in the back of his throat,smells the mold of the crypt. The weight on those words settles on his shoulders and in his heart, while the truth sharpens him and gives him purpose. 

“And there’s a bunch of other shit that I need to tell you, but I’m not going to do that here. If you want to hear it, then you need to show yourself, because fucked if I’m saying it in a prayer. So wherever you’re hiding, you need to come out, because I’ve got,” and here Dean falters, almost doesn’t make it, before he rallies, “I’ve got so much to tell you. So please, Cas. Give me a clue here.” 

Dean turns around, searching for a break in the darkness. Anything that might give him a hint of where to find Cas. 

_ Please _ , he begs, in an almost thoughtless prayer.  _ Please, please, please.  _

He’s spent so long lost in the confines of Cas’ mind that when he spies the faint wisp of light in the distance, he almost doesn’t believe it. He only moves towards it when the light starts to spread through the darkness, coalescing into shapes and a sepia sort of color. 

“Cas?”

Hope flares, wild and fierce, in his chest, and he starts to run towards the light. 

~*~*~*~*~*~


	7. part seven

~*~*~*~*~*~

**__ **

A leaf flutters to the ground. 

Twirling, caught on the breeze, it floats, before landing next to a man. The man rakes the leaves, repetitive motions soothing as he bends and drags the rake over the ground, gathering the leaves closer to him. 

It takes Dean several long minutes before he realizes it’s not multiple leaves he’s watching fall to the ground but rather a continuous loop of the same leaf, drifting along its path, buffeted back and forth by wind and gravity alike. The leaf lands on the ground, but it doesn’t stay there for longer than a second before he’s watching the same leaf fall to the earth yet again. 

The thoughts of whispered words slide over Dean’s skin, currents unheard but passing all around him. He shivers, skin twitching in an involuntary reaction to shake them off, but they linger like oil. He rubs at his arms and concentrates on what he should have seen from the beginning. 

The man raking leaves is him. 

He hasn’t seen that shirt in years. It got misplaced in the shift from one duffel bag to another, and those jeans were lost to a shtriga’s claws years ago, but it’s him. Dean takes a closer look around the yard, and recognizes the flowerbeds and the tree stump he cursed every time he tried to mow. 

Why the hell are they flashing back to Lisa Braeden’s yard? 

Cas never visited Dean here. After their brief conversation in the Impala, when Dean was still raw and reeling from watching his baby brother throw himself into the Pit, Dean had never felt the telltale prickling on the back of his neck which meant the angel was near. For over a year, he’d been abandoned by one of the few beings in the cosmos he’d thought he could trust, just when he could have used a friend who understood exactly the horrors the Cage entailed. 

Fury bubbles in Dean as the loop begins again. How  _ dare  _ Cas bring him here of all places, especially when it was partially Cas’ doing that Lisa and Ben wouldn’t know him if he walked past them on the street? 

Dean blinks. This time, he can hear the words as they slither over the back of his neck. 

_ We should talk, you and I.  _

Though he hasn’t heard it in years, he would know that voice anywhere. Dean whirls around so quickly it makes him dizzy. At the edge of the yard, he sees him: Crowley, his suit pressed, looking unctuous as ever. And standing next to him is--

“Cas,” Dean breathes, heart thudding mercilessly against the fragile confines of his sternum. This is not the Castiel of the bunker, worn soft and familiar like a comfortable pair of jeans. This is the Cas of yesteryears, stiff and unyielding. Uncompromising. This is the Castiel who waged a civil war in Heaven. 

Crowley leans into Cas’ space. Dean is too far away to hear what he says, but he already knows it’s nothing good. His heart sinks as he watches Cas’ expression shift from nostalgic as he watches Dean, to furious as Crowley brushes his hand along his shoulder, to considering as Crowley speaks. Helpless to change a memory, Dean watches as Crowley’s poison works through Cas. Righteousness bleeds out of him, replaced with pride and greed. 

An unpleasant shock jolts through Dean. It was here, he realizes. Right under his fucking nose, Cas made the decision that would unravel so much. He lost Cas while he was less than fifty feet away from him, and he was too stupid to realize what was happening. 

He thinks he might be sick. 

Castiel watches the Dean of the past rake leaves. In the present, Dean watches Castiel as the foundations of his life crumple. For years, he’s thought Castiel’s choice was made out of desperation or as a last resort, but here’s Castiel conversing with Crowley in his backyard. All the while Dean was less than twenty feet away, pretending like this wasn’t the first time he’d held a rake with the intent of using it for its original purpose. If he’d paid a little more attention, focused a little harder, managed to pull himself out of his own grief for just a  _ moment-- _ If Cas had trusted him, even for a  _ second,  _ how much could they have saved? 

Dean’s eyes slide over to the left, drawn by the same force that pulls birds south on their migrations and magnets north, and Dean sees him. 

“Cas!” he shouts. His voice croaks embarrassingly in his throat, before he swallows the lump in his throat. “Castiel!” 

Castiel never blinks, gaze fixed on the tableau playing out before him. As Dean starts walking, the scene resets. That same leaf twists and turns in the breeze, and Castiel watches it like the fate of the world hinges on that one piece of nature’s debris. 

Dean walks until he’s standing close enough to touch. Castiel never looks towards him, not even when Dean shouts his name. Castiel doesn’t bat an eye. 

“Cas. Castiel.” Dean dares to reach out and touch Cas’ wrist. It’s cool to the touch and feels unnaturally smooth, like touching marble. “Cas, come on!” 

Frustration and desperation well in Dean’s chest. He knows his time is ticking away, knows he might only have minutes left to reach Castiel, and now that he’s here, Castiel won’t even look at him. 

Dean slides his fingers over the skin of Cas’ palm, then slots them between Cas’. He squeezes, hoping for a reaction, but none is forthcoming. “Please, Cas.” The omnipresent lump in Dean’s throat rises, threatening to choke him. It takes everything in him to force the words out. “Cas, you have to...you have to wake up. You’ve got to come back home.” Castiel’s eyes track the motion of the leaf and Dean’s heart shatters, piece by jagged piece. “Please, Cas.” Dean squeezes until he feels the small bones of Cas’ hand grind together. “Please. I need you.” 

A leaf flutters to the ground. 

It happens a thousand, maybe a million times a day, all across the globe. Entropy is an inevitable part of life, and winter invariably follows summer. People die. Leaves fall. 

Castiel speaks. 

“I watched you rake the leaves.” 

His voice is hoarse and rough, like he hasn’t spoken in days. For all Dean knows, he hasn’t. 

“It was here. I stood over there,” Cas’ eyes flick to where his other self stands with Crowley, “and I watched you rake the leaves.” 

“Cas, you’ve got to come home with me.” The leaf flutters to the ground. “Cas, we’re running out of time.” 

Castiel stares at the leaf, fascinated by the eternal loop. “I watched you rake leaves, and for a second, it was all so simple. I knew what had to be done and who had to do it.” 

Castiel turns to face Dean. It takes him a long time, joints remembering their original purpose, limbs slotting back into place. His eyes, when they finally lock onto Dean’s, are empty and bleak. 

“It was here.” The leaf falls to the ground. “Here, at this moment. This is where it went wrong.” 

At first, Dean doesn’t know what he means, but then he follows Castiel’s gaze. A few feet away, Crowley leans in to whisper into Castiel’s ear, while Castiel watches Dean rake the leaves. 

“One decision...It all went wrong right here, and I lost…” Castiel’s eyes close before he focuses on that one leaf. “Why are you here?”

Castiel’s eyes sharpen, focusing on Dean. Dean’s so taken aback by the swift change, he doesn’t understand the question. Then his brain kicks back into motion. Castiel’s words make horrible sense and Dean narrows his eyes. 

“The hell? I’m here to bring you  _ home _ .” He waits in vain for recognition to shine in Cas’ eyes. “Home, Cas.” He squeezes Cas’ hand, pressure like a heartbeat. 

Cas doesn’t squeeze back. He looks at Dean, a little lost, a lot confused, and very, very sad. “I can’t go back,” he says slowly, like Dean should already know this. 

Dean, who has made a living out of cheating destiny and fate and God, stares back at Castiel. “The hell do you mean, you can’t?” His fingers grip convulsively at Cas’ hand, and he feels skin and tendons shift underneath his touch. “I’m here to get you. We find the door, we walk through it.” 

Cas shakes his head. Though he never moves, Dean can still feel him pulling away. “I can’t,” he repeats, his eyes shuttering. When he looks back at Dean, his face is set in the familiar determination Dean loves. “Don’t you see?” He gestures to where the other version of himself leans in close to Crowley, interest apparent in the tense lines of his shoulders. “It’s why I’ve been here. I can’t… I needed to see. To remind myself.” 

“Of what?” Dean might be self-loathing, but he’s also not one to rub salt into an open wound just for the hell of it. “What in the fuck is here that you’d want to remember?” 

“I destroyed everything,” Cas says, his voice tight with emotion. “This one decision, this one conversation… I took the world and I broke it. I shattered earth, I mangled Heaven, and I…” Castiel looks at Dean, open and vulnerable, his face a roadmap of pain. “I lost you.” 

Dean’s heart catches in his chest. It stops for what feels like a full thirty seconds before it picks up again, performing a double time rhythm against his ribs. “You didn’t lose me,” he promises. “Cas, I’m right here. You never lost me.” 

Cas shakes his head, stubborn to the end. “I lost our future,” he insists. Foreboding sinks into Dean’s belly. “Afterwards, you stopped trusting me. You didn’t trust me, not for years, not really. And there was always something else, some other reason why… It all came from this. Everything ended here.” 

There’s such a wretched logic held in that sentiment, worse because it’s true. Dean hadn’t trusted Cas, not for years. Always, there was the lingering little bitterness that had lasted up until the point that Cas was human, and at that point, too pathetic to resent. There was always something in the way, some new catastrophe rearing its ugly head. When the world was on the verge of falling off a cliff yet again, it seemed selfish to worry about getting his rocks off. 

The moment Dean opens his mouth, he knows he’s fighting a losing battle. He also knows he has to try. “Cas, I don’t care about that. I don’t,” he insists, sensing Cas’ skepticism. “All that’s in the past, we can work it out, I don’t give a shit. But you have to come with me now.” 

“Dean.” 

Cas squeezes his hand, a bare hint of pressure, before Dean’s fingers are left cold and bereft as he pulls away. 

“This is where I belong.” Castiel gestures to the colorless, empty world of his worst mistake. “Besides, you don’t need me. Not when you have him.” He gestures vaguely at the sky. 

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, even as the pieces slot into place. “I have  _ him _ ?”

Castiel’s shoulders duck and he doesn’t answer. Meanwhile, Dean’s hold on his temper loosens until it slips free, ravenous for blood. “What did you do?” 

“It was the curse,” Castiel murmurs. He watches the leaf fall once more to the ground. “It was going to split me in half anyway. I just...let it happen.” He drags his eyes away from the leaf to look earnestly at Dean. “The second the curse hit, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I had to bury my grace, this part of me,” Castiel gestures at himself, “so deep that I knew I was never going to make it out again. And I thought, maybe, if you had...if you had him. If you had him, then you would be all right. You could be happy.” 

Dean’s vision blanks in a wash of white-hot anger. “You thought I’d be  _ happy _ ? You think I wouldn’t miss you?” He spits the words, almost shaking from fury. Cas looks at him with guileless eyes. 

“You want to see how well I do without you? How happy I am?” Before Cas can pull away, Dean snatches his wrist. Fueled by rage and adrenaline, Dean pushes Cas’ fingers against his forehead. The blunt collision of finger and nails into his skin hurts, but it’s minute pain that’s easily pushed aside. “You think that I’d be alright without you?” Dean knows that his voice has dropped to a dangerous register; he just doesn’t care. There’s a flicker of unease in Cas’ eyes; his fingers tremble on Dean’s forehead, but Dean refuses to let them go. “Take a look and see how I do.” 

Dean feels the slow, curious curl of Cas’ grace unspooling against his skin. Gritting his teeth, he does what has never come naturally and opens himself up. Every wall, every defense, everything that’s ever kept him safe, he lets fall. He reaches deep into his memories, picking the worst of the bunch. The ones that still hurt like a raw wound and feature prominently in his nightmares. He offers them up to Cas, small jagged shards that slice through his fingers and into bone, tiny poisonous things that corrode everything they touch. 

First comes the gut-churning horror and anger and grief from when he pulled Cas’ trenchcoat out of the reservoir. In his memories, the loss hits like a sucker punch, clawing up the back of his throat, noxious and awful. He’d been grief-stricken and furious at himself for feeling that way. He’d wanted more time--time to punish and time to mend, but now there was  _ nothing,  _ Cas was just  _ gone,  _ and Dean was never going to get to fix anything with him--

Castiel watches as Dean loads the trenchcoat into the trunk of the Impala and drives away, his jaw clenched against anything that might escape. He watches as Dean crawls into a bottle, as his breakfasts become liquid. He sees Dean spiral down through all those months, watches a hunt become an obsession, until, finally, Dean calls a man about his brother and hears the name Emmanuel Allen. 

Another shard, another memory--Castiel watches as Dean tears apart the bunker after Sam banishes Lucifer, wearing Cas’ body like a favorite sweatshirt, twisting his friend’s face into shapes Dean didn’t know it could make. Dean shouts until he’s hoarse, tries to bleed the emotions out--the rage, the worry, the fear, the hurt-- _ Why would Cas choose Lucifer, why didn’t Cas believe in him, didn’t Cas think they could do it, they’d always been enough before-- _ “I’m going to get him back, Sammy,” Dean vows, lowering his bleeding hands into his lap. “I’m going to rip Lucifer out of him with my bare hands. I’m…” A trickle of blood winds down Dean’s wrist to curl around his trembling fingers. “I can’t do this without him,” Dean whispers, so soft that he’s not sure if Sam hears him. 

Castiel, aided by angelic perception and the mystery of memories, hears everything. He looks at Dean then, his eyes wide and soft around the edges, but Dean forces them onward. He might have been jerked around by Castiel’s memories for the past few days, but now they’re in his playground, and he’s moving with purpose. 

Dean knows what comes next. Even as he and Cas step into the edges of the memory, he can’t help but shy away. These are the nightmares from which he wakes gasping and flailing, desperation clogging sour in the back of his throat. This was the worst case scenario, the darkest timeline, the  _ Jesus fuck, it could never get that bad  _ path, except it did get that bad. 

He forces them both to stand at the tiny house on the lake, the glowing golden portal little more than a thin slash in the night. He forces them both to feel everything--the residual anger of Cas lying to them, the preemptive grief for losing Kelly, the confused muddle of watching Crowley die, and worst of all, the shrill, bright edge of terror because Cas wasn’t back yet, Cas was still stuck in that apocalypse world, Cas wasn’t  _ here-- _

Sam’s hand clamped around his arm is the only thing managing to calm his panic, an anchor to the rest of the world. Dean strains towards the portal, hoping, praying, a wordless stream of  _ please, please, please-- _ Sam’s hand relaxes as they watch the portal flare, and joy bursts in Dean’s chest as Cas steps out from the portal--weary, careworn, anxious, but he’s  _ here,  _ he’s  _ alive,  _ and Dean knows they’ll figure out the rest later, they always do--

And then the blade sprouts from Cas’ chest and light spills from Cas’ eyes and mouth, and the wail of Cas’ dying grace splits the night air. Cas drops to the ground as a hole the size of the Grand Canyon rips through Dean’s chest, and he’ll never be whole again, never, never, as cold seeps in through the fabric of his jeans as he falls to his knees beside Cas’ body--

Dean ruthlessly shows the convoluted tangle of memories of after. He forces Cas to experience the dead weight of the body as he carries it into the living room of the house, the brush of Cas’ limp hand as Dean lays him on the table. He waits until Cas knows that Dean had to go outside and vomit as he was wrapping Cas’ body in a shroud. He shows how he stayed outside until the last flame guttered and died. 

Cas watches him sink into a pit of whiskey soaked apathy, sees how sobriety became something to be feared and loathed. 

Cas feels the self-loathing sink into Dean’s bones, how he wished to die. 

Those weeks wash over them in a wave of misery. Every morning, Dean would wake, hope guttering low in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, the last few weeks were a nightmare. Then reality would take over, bile and ash in his mouth, and Dean would reach out for wherever the whiskey bottle fell when he passed out. Rinse and repeat, and maybe he’d get lucky some day and a werewolf would just take him the fuck out because living like this, hopeless and bleak--Dean knows torture, but he’d never known agony like this. 

When Dean pulls back and the memories recede, they’re both panting. Cas, his face anguished and vulnerable, looks away from him and into the greyscale of Lisa Braeden’s yard. 

They both stare at the leaf. 

It was dead when it fell to the ground. It’s been dead for several years, long since decayed and returned to the earth from whence it came, but its expiration strikes Dean as unbearably pointless. 

That this is what Cas thinks he deserves. An eternity of his worst decision played in an endless loop while a reminder of mortality winds its way towards the ground. 

No one deserves that. Least of all Cas. 

“Cas, please.” He addresses his words to the broad expanse of Cas’ back. The only indication Cas is listening to him is the strange, almost statue-like stillness of him. “You have to come back. I can’t…” 

Like always, the words clog in his throat, just before they can make the jump from  _ potential  _ into  _ reality.  _ In eleven years, how many times has Dean imagined saying them? He’s dreamed them in his mouth more times than he can count. Every time Cas went away, every time he came back, the quiet times in between. The rare nights when Cas would stay, kick off his shoes and shrug out of his coat. His forehead would wrinkle like he couldn’t quite understand the reason why he was performing these rituals, but he was willing to humor Dean’s adherence to strange human social mores. He’d settle on the couch next to Dean, arm pressed against his like a brand and Dean would freeze, tasting those three words on his tongue and still, still, he wouldn’t say them. All those opportunities squandered, until the lump in his throat becomes routine, another little burden to carry until one day he fucks up and goes onto the pyre, regrets and all.

In forty years, Dean has had plenty of regrets. He doesn’t want Cas to become one. 

“I can’t do any of this without you.” The words emerge as little more than a whisper, and Dean’s throat feels shredded as they leave. But he needs more. Cas still isn’t facing him, and Dean has to make him understand. The wasted years and missed chances and the question,  _ Why aren’t you together?  _ flurry at him in a barrage, sparking a frenzy in his blood. 

“I don’t  _ want _ to do this without you. Cas, you’re my best friend, but you’re so much more--” Cas’ back is impenetrable. Despair wells up in him as he regards his options. The sand is running out of the hourglass and he knows, deep in the part of him that’s been hunting for damn near his whole life, that if he can’t convince Cas to come back with him, then he’ll have lost him forever. 

He can’t lose Cas. He won’t. 

Words have never been his strong suit. 

Dean’s ears start ringing as he closes the distance between him and Cas. One hand on Cas’ shoulder turns the angel to face him, while the other hand angles Cas’ face, tipping his chin up. Cas’ eyes are wide, but he doesn’t stop Dean as he leans in. It’s been years since he felt Cas, whole and perfect and just a little too warm to be human, in his arms. Dean’s body remembers what to do, remembers exactly the scrape of Cas’ stubble against his palms, remembers the clean, fresh rain taste of Cas on his lips.

The touch of their lips against each other is electric, Cas’ mouth opening against his. Dean doesn’t take the invitation but instead nips at the plump flesh of Cas’ lower lip, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting. Cas presses into him with a hungry groan, one hand cupping the back of Dean’s neck while the other settles at the dip of his waist. Dean shudders, deepening the kiss even as his lips split in a wide grin. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes. When he speaks, his lips brush against Cas’, and sparks of delight flare in his belly. This is where they belong, where they should have been all along. Why the  _ hell _ were they keeping themselves from this? 

Overcome, Dean presses a quick series of kisses to Cas’ mouth. He cups Cas’ face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. Small trembles chase their way through Cas’ body, and Dean feels the same tremors shaking through him. Awed, Dean brushes his thumb against Cas’ cheek, marveling at the rough scratch of stubble against his fingertips. 

Dean whispers the words, soft and secret, into the space between them. 

“I love you.” 

For the first time in years it doesn’t hurt when he breathes. Dean inhales and doesn’t feel the broken rib, the lingering catch of  _ oh shit not that way _ . There’s only the easy rhythm, in and out, and Dean thinks  _ Oh. It could have always been this simple _ . 

A small, hesitant expression that, with a little encouragement, could become a smile spreads across Cas’ face. 

“I love you,” Dean repeats, just to watch Cas’ smile grow. 

He’s said those words to Sam and Mom, people who never had to doubt the veracity of his emotions, but they don’t come easily to him. Even to family, those words came as an apology or an explanation.  _ I love you. I’m sorry. I love you, which is why I have to do this.  _ His whole life, Dean’s love has been a burden at best, a literal death sentence at worst. 

But Castiel hears those words and smiles like a sunrise. 

“So that’s why you’ve got to come back,” Dean says. No longer hampered by fear of the past, he’s instead overwhelmed with possibilities for the future. To have Cas like this, every day? It’s more than he ever dreamed. “Not because I need you for a job, but because it’s so much better with you there. Even the shitty parts are better with you. Besides Sam, there’s no one I trust more. You’ve gotta know Cas, there’s no one else. You’re it for me.” 

Castiel doesn’t speak, but the gentle touch of his thumb to Dean’s temple feels like agreement. “Please,” Dean whispers, holding on so tightly that it seems impossible that he and Cas could ever be separated. “Please come back.” 

Castiel’s eyes flick up to him. A potent mixture of hope and fear swirls in their depths. “I don’t know how,” he whispers. “The curse… I tried to protect myself as best I could, but I’m weak. I don’t know if I can fight my way out.” 

Despair laps at his ankles, but Dean refuses to allow it to overwhelm him. Instead, he forces his mind to work the immediate problem. It’s what Dad taught him: work on the most pressing issues, and everything else tends to fall into place. 

He looks around him while he weighs the available information. The curse was put on Cas to sever his grace from his consciousness. It was intended to torture. Judging from the memories Castiel dragged him through, the curse has more than lived up to its promise. In the end, it trapped Cas in a loop where he’s forced to relive what he considers his worst mistake, over and over again.

Dean watches the leaf float to the ground.

“This is a loop,” he says, somewhat unnecessarily. His thoughts are racing, scrambling to develop into a cohesive whole. Cas raises a sardonic brow at him, always impressed with his mental acuity, and Dean presses on before the angel has a chance to comment. “I mean, the point of this was to torture you by keeping you trapped in your worst memory. You said it yourself: this is the moment which led to all the others.” 

“There’s no need to remind me,” Cas snaps, but Dean doesn’t bristle at this moment of peevishness. If anything, he rejoices in it. It’s not that awful, empty tone of before; no, this is Cas as he should be. 

“What I meant,” Dean says, “is we’re  _ letting _ it repeat. We’re not changing anything.” 

From how Cas’ eyebrow continues to climb up his forehead, Dean guesses he’s not getting the point. 

“The best way to break a loop is to do something unexpected. Each time this plays out, you watch yourself make the same mistake--you talk to Crowley and then you leave, and nothing ever changes.” 

Cas still looks skeptical, but he hasn’t interrupted. Dean sucks in a deep breath before he continues. 

“You said your biggest regret was that you didn’t talk to me. You thought that maybe if you talked to me, we could have avoided…” Dean’s stomach squirms as he thinks of those awful months: Sam wandering around without a soul, the pain he put Lisa and Ben through, the awful, churning betrayal that tore him apart every time he thought of Cas. “What if you did something different? What if you got a chance to undo your mistake?”

“Dean.” Cas’ small, sad smile sits too easily on his face. “I wish that I could go back. More than anything, I’ve wanted to undo that moment. But I can’t travel through time anymore--”

“I’m not talking about going back to the past, Cas. I’m talking about fixing it right now. You go over and say what you never said all those years ago.” 

Cas glances over his shoulder. “This is a memory. No matter how much you try, you can’t affect change. What you’re seeing… You’d have better luck changing the course of a television show. It’s all just sound and images, played out as we remember them.” 

A desperate certainty fills Dean, the kind born from having nothing else to cling to. “Something tells me they’ll make an exception for you right now.” Cas still looks dubious. “What else do you have to lose?” 

Cas glances back and forth between the Dean of the present and the Dean of the past. His face twists in uncertainty, but only for a moment before he makes his decision. His shoulders set and his mouth knits in a determined grimace. A familiar gleam lights in Cas’ eyes, the look he gets whenever he’s ready for a fight. 

Dean loves that once Cas sets his mind on a course of action, he adheres to it, come hell or high water (really, he loves all Cas’ qualities, even the ones that are a little infuriating, like Cas’ tendency to be obtuse at the worst possible times, or side with Sam on almost anything that pertains to human health). But before Cas throws himself into battle once more, Dean has something he wants to do first. He grabs at Cas’ wrist, tugging to get his attention. Cas turns towards him, and Dean’s heart skitters when he catches the whiff of violence and righteousness wafting off of him. 

“No matter what happens,” he says, because he feels the climax swelling in the air around him as the edges of the world flicker with possibility, “I love--”

“I know,” Cas tells him, something sad and precious in his face as he turns around and walks towards the Dean raking leaves. Dean wants to shout after him (he can’t believe Cas was the one to Han Solo  _ him _ ), but then Cas is standing next to past Dean, looking at him like he’s looking at a miracle. He sees Cas reach out and touch the younger version of himself on the arm. 

His younger self turns to look at Cas, forehead wrinkled in confusion. The Cas of today is a far cry from the Cas Dean knew back then, still rigid and unyielding in his convictions, still with Heaven’s sharp edges. The Cas of today is worn and rumpled, his cares and trials carved into his face. He’s been through purgatory and death, humanity and godhood, and come out the other side, but not without his share of scars. 

A dull roar, like ocean waves relentlessly pounding at the shore, fills Dean’s ears, as the two start to talk. This far away, Dean can’t hear the conversation or even catch the shape of Cas’ mouth as he speaks, but he can see how his other self reacts. He takes a step backwards, the rake falling from his hands as his face twists in disbelief. His shoulders set in a tight, angry line. Dean remembers the strain of those months. Without hunting to ground him, feeling Sam’s loss like a phantom limb, his anger had been like dry leaves on a forest floor, just waiting for a spark. Hearing something that goes against his entire worldview, like the fact that Castiel was about to throw in his lot with the King of Hell, would be dousing those leaves in gasoline and then tossing down a lit match. 

The roaring in Dean’s ears grows louder as he watches the whole exchange with baited breath. He can see another exchange of words, right before Cas’ posture slumps. Dean’s chest seizes in panic, and then past Dean reaches out and grips Cas’ shoulder and holds it tight. There’s forgiveness in that touch, that and something more. Even if Cas couldn’t tell, Dean knows himself well enough to interpret the compulsive tightening of the fingers, the tiny little clench that speaks of need and desperation, loneliness and more. 

Dean winces as the roar builds to a skull shattering pressure. Amidst the noise, he can distinguish individual voices. His eyes widen in horror as he finally places them--Sam shouting, caught between rage and fear, the warm, golden light of Jack’s powers seeping through his body. He can feel himself being pulled back, like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point, and he holds onto the memory with everything in him.  _ No,  _ Dean tries to shout, terror turning him frantic. He doesn’t have a good hold on Cas, which means he doesn’t have a way to bring him back--

_ Cas,  _ he tries to scream, but no sound emerges. The edges of the world turn to white, details blurring as Dean starts to slip away. Stirred by his imminent departure, the leaves swirl in a whirlwind, and it’s then that Cas looks at him. 

Their eyes meet for one moment, suspended in air like a roller coaster just before it starts down. Eleven years pass in the blink of an eye, eleven years of bruised and bloody knuckles, grace and demons and humanity and loss and friendship. And then gravity takes over, the moment shatters. 

The last thing he sees are Cas’ lips, forming the single syllable of his name, and then Dean is gone. 

He comes slowly and reluctantly to awareness. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to recognize the people around him. He can recognize Sam’s soft touch on his forehead and the douchey smell of his aftershave, and can tell Eileen is nearby through the disturbance in the air as she signs furiously. He smells the vague odor of brimstone and sulfur which follows Rowena, even through the lilac scent she wears to mask it. Jack’s power is like a crackle in the air, the kind that makes civilians sit up and take notice. 

“Dean,” Sam says again, less frantic and more irritated. “I know you’re awake. Come on.” 

A groaned “Fuck you,” seems to be the appropriate response. His head is pounding like he decided to drink a whole bar, and his body feels beat to hell and back. 

One of Sam’s giant paws gropes at his forehead and pries his eyelid open. A harsh, unrelenting light flashes into his pupils. Dean hisses and swats at his brother. He misses, which is surprising, considering the gargantuan size of his target. However, it’s enough to get Sam to back off, which is what Dean wanted in the long run. Free of his looming, Dean slowly pushes himself upright. 

Once again, he finds himself in one of the narrow infirmary beds. His back aches from the paper-thin mattress. His head aches from having his brain tampered with. His heart aches for other reasons. 

“Cas,” Dean slurs, blinking in the too-bright lights. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and ignores how the world swirls and fuzzes. He ignores the soft, “Maybe you should rest for a moment,” that Eileen tries to give him. “Where… where is Cas?” 

If he made it back but Cas didn’t… If he left Cas behind,  _ again _ \--Then it was all for nothing. 

“Did you even know what the hell you were doing?” Sam snaps. His anger tells Dean, better than anything else could, the full depths of his worry. “Did you stop and think of the risks you were taking? Did you even consider the danger you put Cas in?” 

By now the ringing in Dean’s ears has subsided. At least he doesn’t feel like he’ll pass out if he takes a step forward. Behind Sam, he catches sight of what he’s looking for. Lying unconscious on the other bed is Cas. 

It’s so damned similar to the situation of a few days ago that it turns Dean’s stomach. It can’t end the same way, with Cas waking up, eyes dull and missing the spark that made him  _ Cas.  _ Dean refuses to accept any future in which that’s a possibility.

“Cas,” he says, stumbling towards the bed. His knee lands on the edge of the mattress and he bangs his shin against the frame, but he ignores the swift flash of pain. “Cas, come on.” 

His family’s eyes bore a hole in his back, and Dean ignores them all. There will be time later to apologize and beg forgiveness. For now, nothing matters except the warmth of Cas’ skin, the softness of his hair as he cards his fingers through it. “Come on Cas,” Dean whispers. His hope is so fierce, it could move worlds. “Please. Please.” 

There’s no one left to pray to, but he does anyway. 

_ Please. Don’t let it be too late.  _

_ Please. Let me have this one thing.  _

_ Please. After everything, I deserve this.  _

Eternities pass in a few seconds. Dean holds his breath. Then, Cas’ eyelashes flutter against his cheek. His chest catches with a quick inhale. Dean draws back to give Cas some space, but he doesn’t dare take his hand away from Cas’ face. To think of that level of separation sends a pang straight through his chest. 

Cas’ eyes open, their bright blue almost eclipsed by huge pupils which contract as soon as the light hits them. 

“Cas?” Dean whispers, futilely trying to crush the pathetic hope in his chest. “Castiel?” 

Looking into Castiel’s eyes is like standing on the deck of a ship and staring down into the Pacific. No matter how long and hard anyone looks, they’ll never be able to see the bottom. Looking into Cas’ eyes is similar, except replace the ocean with galaxies. 

Dean smiles, soft and giddy, effervescent. It’s not too late. 

“Hey, Cas,” he says, thumb soft over the skin of Cas’ temple. 

“Hello Dean.” 

Only Cas can turn those four letters into a caress or put so much warmth into a single syllable. 

Cas blinks and looks around the room before he looks back at Dean. The first stirrings of unease ripple through Dean. Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy, of  _ course not _ , because when is his life ever easy or kind? 

“What happened?” Cas asks the room at large, and the only sound Dean can hear is the sound of his own heart plummeting until it reaches terminal velocity and crashes onto the floor. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~


	8. part eight

~*~*~*~*~*~

The story comes piecemeal to Castiel. 

He knows certain parts are being omitted. It’s been years since he first visited earth; he knows how to pick out signs of evasion. The twitch of Sam’s eye, the pause in Eileen’s hands before she signs another piece of the story to him. The swift cut of Jack’s eyes to Dean before he stutters out the particular spell he and Rowena used. Even Rowena falters and covers it with a wink and a pithy one-liner. 

They tell him he was hit with a curse, and they were uncertain whether or not they would be able to bring him back. They tell him Dean went into his mind to retrieve him. Obviously, Dean was successful. 

When Sam mentions Dean (with a whiff of anger in his eyes; Castiel will no doubt hear that story later), the man in question doesn’t take credit. Instead, he tries to sink back into his chair. His gaze remains fixed on the ground between his feet while he picks at the edge of a ragged nail. 

There’s nothing Castiel wants more than to go to him, but he forces himself to wait. Later. There will be time later.

Eventually, the excited, nervous babble subsides into regular conversation. Rowena takes her leave, citing the requirements of Hell. Castiel watches her go with a small, nostalgic pang. She’ll never quite fit into their world again, and in some way, he can’t help but feel as though he’s partially responsible. There are still regrets to which he clings, guilts he’ll never completely absolve himself of. 

Dean pushes his chair away from the table with a loud, jarring scrape. “If you don’t need anything else,” he begins. The words are barely out of his mouth before he starts down the hallway. Castiel watches him go, yearning to follow, but knowing he has to stay, at least for the moment. 

Castiel waits for as long as possible before excusing himself. Dinner is a quick affair, whipped up by Sam with Eileen’s help. Jack chatters to him about the spells he’s helped tweak, about the goings-on of Heaven, about the television shows he’s watched, and the dishes that he’s concocted. Castiel listens with half an ear. His mind is torn between his child and the man sitting alone in his room. 

He forces a few bites down before he smiles apologetically at Sam and Eileen. “I’m sorry,” he says, fingers working swiftly to sign at Eileen, “I think I’m still recovering.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. He signs for Eileen’s benefit and keeps his eyes fixed on Castiel. “Of course. If you need to call it a night, go for it. You’ve been through a lot.” 

But his eyes flick towards the hallway, the same as Castiel’s, and the meaning is unmistakable. 

Jack grins up at him, his eyes not quite as guileless as Castiel expected. Even Eileen offers an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up. 

“Good night,” Sam bids. The sentiment is echoed by Eileen and Jack and Castiel waves a companionable hand at all of them before he heads out of the kitchen. His heart beats an anxious pitter-patter in his chest as he starts down the hallway towards Dean’s room. 

If he were blindfolded, he could still make this trip from memory. His feet know the exact dip of the tiles and the nicks in the wall. He knows the particular flicker of the lights. He could identify each individual particle of wood in the door. 

Along with a thin strip of light, strains of music drift into the hallway. Dean’s not sleeping, as Castiel first thought, but this alternative brings him no joy. His chest aches at the thought of Dean, bereft of company, hiding in his room. He raps on the door. The volume of the music lowers.

“What?” Even through the door, Dean’s voice is whip sharp with irritation. 

“It’s me,” Castiel answers, pushing away the brief flare of worry. “Can I come in?” 

There’s a long pause before Dean answers, “Sure. Why not.” 

His voice implies he wants nothing less than Castiel in his room, but Castiel looks beyond the obvious. Buried beneath Dean’s chilly tone, so deep it takes an angel to find it, Castiel senses the deep core of hurt and yearning. He wonders if Dean is aware of it, or if he’s been nursing this ache for so long that it’s just become a part of him. 

Castiel opens the door in a quick motion and slides into the room. He quietly closes the door behind him, then turns to face Dean. 

The man in question lies on his stomach, eyes pointedly fixed at the wall beside Castiel. On his desk, the turntable whirs and the record on top spins in a never ending circle. “What’s up, Cas?” 

For the first time, Castiel listens to the strain in Dean’s voice as he pretends everything is fine. He wonders how many times he’s ignored it or looked past it, or promised himself he’ll get to the bottom of it sooner or later. Another guilt he can carry with him. 

“You looked upset earlier,” Castiel begins. He knows what he wants to say, but he’s still unsure of how to broach the topic. Despite the raw edge in Dean’s voice, Castiel knows that Dean is liable to run, or worse, lash out. 

“Yeah, well, it’s been a tough few days.” Dean’s eyes flick up to his before he returns to staring at the wall. “Not that you would know.” 

Castiel shrugs out of his coat and tosses it on the chair in Dean’s room. After a moment’s deliberation, he sheds his jacket as well. His shoulders itch, unaccustomed to the lightness. He settles on the corner of Dean’s bed, making sure to keep himself far enough away from Dean that he doesn’t feel cornered. 

His brief disrobing manages to catch a sliver of Dean’s attention before he forcefully drags his eyes away. He focuses on the opposite wall, but his shoulders hunch in a tight, tense line. Dean’s fingers pick at the edge of his comforter, and a small muscle twitches in his jaw. 

“Why don’t you tell me what it was like,” Castiel begins. 

He knows, by asking this, he’s started to dig underneath a scab Dean pretends doesn’t exist. When he’d woken, Dean had flinched from him, as swiftly as though he’d been burned. Castiel had known then that something was wrong. It had taken him a few seconds to determine the probable cause of the curious mixture of hurt and anger swirling through Dean’s features. 

He hopes he’s right. 

Dean manages to shrug and curl into himself all at the same time. “Sam and the rest already told you. Don’t see why you’d want my opinion. To hear Sam tell it, I’m just the asshole who almost killed you and just managed to get lucky along the way.” Resentment colors Dean’s voice, but there’s something deeper hiding beneath the eddies. Dean and Sam disagree on how to handle most problems; Sam disapproving of how Dean reacted to a situation isn’t enough to put this amount of bite into Dean’s words. 

Castiel waits. He’s learned that Dean doesn’t do well with silence, especially not a silence with this uncomfortable, razor edge to it. Part of Dean longs to fill the space with conversation until they soften once more. This time is no different. 

“I mean, he’s not wrong. It was a fucking stupid thing to do.” Dean ducks his head, directing the next words to the frayed edge of his comforter. “No way to get myself out if everything went to shit, no way to get  _ you _ out if everything went to shit… Yeah, Sam was right.” 

“Then why do it?” 

Castiel doesn’t want to push, but he has to know. More importantly, Dean has to say it. Sometimes, these wounds have to burn clean before they can heal. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Dean says. Castiel thinks he catches a flash of rolled eyes. “You weren’t… Whoever the fuck it was, walking around in your skin… Sam and Rowena will insist all day long that it was…” 

Dean finally looks up at Castiel. There’s something bleak and defiant in his eyes, like he’s come to the end but is still willing to fight his way out. It’s something so very  _ Dean _ that it sets a spark aflame in Castiel’s chest. 

“They said the curse split your grace from...well, whatever makes you,  _ you.  _ That your angel parts and your human parts were torn apart from each other.” 

“I don’t have any human parts,” Castiel says, as gently as possible, and watches Dean’s face fall. 

With that, he knows what he has to do. Obstacles fall away from him, leaving his path blissfully clear. 

“Dean, I’m an angel. My grace… It’s the closest thing I have to a soul.” Castiel places his palm flat against his chest, just so he can feel the unnecessary beating of his heart. “There is no splitting an angel from their grace. Do that and the angel becomes human.” 

Dean’s trying not to look at him, but he eventually loses the fight. He even turns towards Castiel, propping himself on an elbow. “Then what the hell happened? Because the person that was here… It wasn’t you, Cas. I  _ know  _ you, sure as I know anything, and that…” 

“When the curse hit,” Castiel says, knowing that it’s only going to take Dean a few moments to understand the significance of his words, “it came like a knife’s blade. I only had a second to decide what to do and hope that it was the right decision. In the end, I decided to voluntarily split my grace. I tossed some of it up towards the surface, and the rest I buried, deep as I could. I had to hope the pieces I left on the surface were enough to find you, so you could help me, and that the pieces I buried were enough to hold the rest of me together until you could find me.” 

Dean blinks a little too rapidly to be casual. “You…” He swallows, hard enough that Castiel could see the bob of his throat even if he weren’t an angel. “You were waiting for me?”

Castiel tilts his head. He yearns to close the gap of space between himself and Dean, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. They still haven’t crossed that last barrier. “I had to trust you would find me. I knew you would do everything you could.” 

Dean stares down at the comforter. A faint pink flush chases itself across his cheeks. Then, his spine stiffens and his fingers freeze. Slowly, his head swivels to face Castiel. A hard glint is in Dean’s eyes and his mouth is set in a harsh, unforgiving line. 

“I thought you didn’t remember anything,” Dean says, slowly, so that there’s no mistaking him. 

There it is.

“I might have...exaggerated the extent of my confusion,” Castiel says delicately. It hurts to see the quick flash of betrayal in Dean’s eyes, but he forces himself to look. It was his decision to do this; he should see the effects of it. 

“Goddammit, Cas,” Dean breathes. Far from relaxing him, this news only serves to further stress the already strained line of his body. He’s almost vibrating with barely repressed nerves. “So what? You were faking, just so…  _ Why?”  _

Castiel swallows. Now that it comes time to do so, he finds that he’s reluctant to lay all of his cards down, so to speak. But, he reminds himself, Dean did so first. 

Dean plumbed the depths of his mind, just to find him. Even after witnessing the worst horrors Castiel’s memories and regrets could conjure, Dean still came for him. Dean never gave up hope, never stopped believing. 

It’s Castiel’s turn to do the same. 

“I wanted to give you a chance,” Castiel begins, taking in the slight wobble of Dean’s lower lip, listening to the quiet catch of Dean’s breath. “In case you decided you wanted to change your mind. I thought that it would be easier. If I left you the space.” 

Dean blinks once, then twice, then again. His mouth twists in an angry snarl before he thinks better on it. Dean closes his eyes and inhales in a long, continued breath. He holds his breath for several beats, before he releases it in a slow whoosh of air. 

“You stupid bastard,” Dean breathes, which isn’t exactly what Castiel was expecting. Then, without warning, Dean yanks on his tie. The swift disruption to his equilibrium sends Castiel sprawling across the mattress and before he has a chance to recover, Dean crawls on top of him. Dazed, Castiel can only lie on his back and stare up at Dean. 

He’s lovely, Dean Winchester. Castiel always thought so, from the first moment he saw the glitter of Dean’s soul in the darkest, most sordid pit of Hell. Even surrounded by filth and horror, Dean managed to shine. Here, in the dim lamplight of his own room, alight with joy, Dean almost glows. 

“You’re a stupid, rude, son of a bitch, you know that, right?” Dean never releases his hold on Castiel’s tie. In fact, he tugs it for emphasis. The quick pull against his neck sends a small shiver of delight down Castiel’s spine. 

“Technically, I’m not a son of anything,” Castiel begins, before Dean cuts him off with another sharp yank of his tie. 

“Shut up,” he says, easily and without heat. “You wanted to give me a chance to back out.” Dean shakes his head in clear bewilderment. “Like I was ever going to change my mind.” 

He splays his palm wide over Castiel’s chest in a gesture simultaneously vulnerable and possessive. The heat of his skin bleeds through Castiel’s shirt and into his grace. “I told you,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face into something as permanent as the stars. “You’re it for me. If it’s not you, then… There’s not anyone else. Not for me.” 

The truth of that statement shakes through Castiel and strikes at his core. Dragging himself back up and fitting the jagged pieces of himself back together had been excruciating. The only thing that had gotten him through the ordeal was the heat of Dean’s kiss, soldering his separate parts whole once more. Waking up, disoriented, into a world that he’d thought he might never see again...Doubt had risen in him, sharp and bitter, and he’d needed to  _ know.  _

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers, because he should have already known. He should have trusted Dean, same as before. He should have known. Whenever he falters, he should trust that Dean will be there, one step behind him, to catch him. A human, propping up an angel. 

There’s something so poignantly beautiful about that, it makes Castiel’s chest burn. 

“Promise me,” Dean says, leaning in close. “I can do a hell of a lot of shit, Cas, but I can’t...If we’re going to do anything, if we’re going to be anything...You gotta tell me the truth. Even if it hurts. Even if it sucks. Because that’s the only way we’re ever going to move forward.” 

“I can promise that,” Castiel says, and surprises himself with how little he has to think about it. 

Dean has offered him the world and in return, all he asks for is the truth. 

Castiel would give up so much more than that for this man. 

When Dean smiles, something long forgotten sparks to life in Castiel’s grace. It’s the same joy that he felt when he watched the first fish crawl out of the sea and flop, gasping, onto the land, the same joy when humans first discovered fire and he watched lights flare to life in what had previously been just an inky black canvas. Dean is the joy of creation and invention. Before meeting him, Castiel had been convinced that he would never see anything new ever again. Dean proves him wrong every day. 

The joy on Dean’s face never falters as he traces a thumb over the apple of Castiel’s cheek. “Does that mean--” Dean asks, before he loses his momentum. 

Castiel can read the question in Dean’s eyes. Even if he couldn’t, the memory of Dean’s words echoes in his mind, those three words falling in his ears like stones into a pond. 

“I don’t know when I started loving you,” Castiel whispers. He watches Dean’s eyes widen and listens to the ragged catch of his breath. “It’s like watching the sunrise, all those colors splashed across the sky. You try to keep track of them, but every second that passes, something else changes. Every interaction, I would think,  _ Of course, it was that conversation, it was that moment,  _ but then I could remember another moment, and then another one.” 

Dean’s eyes are glassy in the soft lighting of the room. Castiel aches to touch him, to soothe away any lingering hurts that he might have caused, but he’ll wait until Dean gives him the permission to move. 

“Jesus Cas,” Dean murmurs, and with that, their self-control shatters. 

Despite his vow not to move until Dean did, Castiel isn’t sure which of them moves first. In the end it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter which happened first, the wave or the spark; all that matters is they happen.

Kissing Dean is...Castiel used to blame his lack of soul on his inability to properly describe the joy and bliss of feeling Dean like that, of experiencing Dean’s trust, care, and devotion in such unequivocal forms. Now he thinks that it’s because there is no word. There’s not a way to put a name on this feeling, not a way to box it up, neat and packaged. 

Dean is a tempest that blows through all human and angelic constructs. 

“Thought that I’d lost you all over again,” Dean pants against his mouth. Dean’s teeth score the tender flesh of Castiel’s lower lip and Castiel whines in the back of his throat at the feel of it. “When you looked at me and asked  _ what happened _ ...I thought you’d forgotten everything and we’d come all that way for nothing.” 

Dean’s words twist in Castiel’s chest and remind him that he’s responsible for more than just himself. Dean’s done him the honor, time and time again, of putting his bare, vulnerable heart into Castiel’s hands. And time and time again, Castiel has let it fall, sometimes too careless, sometimes too afraid, to take on the responsibility. 

Never again. 

“I’m sorry.” Castiel whispers the apology into Dean’s mouth, into the soft sweep of his hair as it starts to curl over his temple, damp with sweat. “I’m sorry.” Into the curve of Dean’s cheek, the bolt of his jaw, the curve of his upper lip. “I don’t ever want you to lose me,” into the hollow of Dean’s collarbone. 

He doesn’t promise that Dean won’t lose him. As long as they’re hunter and angel, that promise can’t be made. But he can try to stay found. 

“I want to…” Dean whispers, his hands moving restlessly over Castiel’s shirt. “Can I?” 

“Please,” Castiel replies, not sure what Dean’s asking permission for, but granting it nonetheless. There’s hardly anything that he would refuse this man. 

They’ve fallen out of practice in this dance, but Castiel relearns the steps easily enough. They tug and pull at clothing, laughing when the odd stitch rips. A shudder works its way through Castiel’s body as Dean undoes the last button of his shirt and lets the two halves fall open alongside his chest. 

“God,” Dean whispers, his voice hoarse. “Cas.” 

Castiel doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls at the hem of Dean’s shirt, wordlessly urging Dean to disrobe. Dean only pulls away from him long enough to rip his henley and undershirt off before he’s covering Castiel’s body with his own, both of them groaning at the hot slide of their flesh. 

Castiel’s eyes roll up in the back of his head as their bodies start a slow rhythm against each other. Trapped between Dean’s body and the mattress, he feels like he’s adrift in the middle of the ocean, the tides and waves pulling at his body. Only Dean’s touch keeps him sane, hands on his cheeks, smoothing over his chest and stomach, thumb flicking over the taut nub of a nipple until Castiel gasps at the sensation. 

“Is this ok?” Dean murmurs, lips brushing against the underside of Castiel’s jaw. “Are we…?”

Castiel twists his fingers in Dean’s hair, yanking sharply to bring Dean’s eyes to his. The blood in his veins boils at the heavy-lidded look of pleasure on Dean’s face as well as the soft whine that falls from his lips. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he orders. Despite the harshness of the sentence, his affection turns the words soft at the edges, more like an endearment than a curse. 

“You asked for it,” and then there’s no time for talking. Castiel loses himself in the slide of skin on skin, in the depths of Dean’s mouth. Their hips roll together in a slow, sinuous dance, Castiel’s knee bumping into Dean’s hip, Dean’s fingers carding through his hair, Castiel’s hands tracing the strong lines of Dean’s shoulders. 

“Never letting you go,” Dean gasps against the spare hairs on Castiel’s belly, just before he sucks a bruising kiss to the flesh just underneath and to the right of his navel. Castiel’s eyes close as he runs his hands over the back of Dean’s head and down the length of his spine, far as he can reach. “Fuck, Cas, you--”

“I know,” Castiel pants, drawing Dean up for another series of searing kisses. “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I just--Please.” His hand shakes as he traces designs over Dean’s stomach, down to the buckle of his belt, heated from being pressed against Castiel’s body. “Please, let me.” 

Dean smothers his huffs of laughter into the crook of Castiel’s neck. “Fuck Cas, you do whatever you want.” 

With the permission given, Castiel’s hands work quickly. Within moments, he has Dean’s belt undone, his jeans unfastened and pushed down his hips as far as they’ll reach. Dean trembles as Castiel’s hands smooth over the skin of his hips and flank and he presses shallow, thoughtless kisses to the hollow of Castiel’s collarbone, bites lovemarks into his neck. 

He never thought he’d have this again. That last night in Rexford, Castiel had let a few tears escape from beneath his closed eyelids, pulled Dean close to him and buried his face in the man’s shoulder, just so he could hide his expression from him. He’d known then, that this was goodbye--That his humanity and Dean’s actions had broken something in them down to the quick. He’d tried to commit everything to memory--the slick slide of Dean’s lips across his, the burn and stretch of being filled, the heavy press of Dean atop of him, the burst and tear of his heartstrings. Even as the tides of pleasure threatened to drag him underneath, the constant stab of pain had reminded him-- _ Remember this. This is the last time.  _

Being able to feel Dean again--to listen to his muffled gasps of delight as Castiel wraps his fingers around him and starts to stroke, have his lips scrape over his jaw as they blindly search for his mouth--it’s more than Castiel ever dreamed of. It’s more than he ever dared hope for. 

Dean’s impatience takes over before too long as his hips start moving in tiny, aborted thrusts. Castiel twists his wrist over Dean’s erection, flicking his thumb through the slow leak of precome from the slit. Hearing the resultant moan in his ear makes him feel powerful, makes his grace expand in his chest until he’s worried that the mortal confines of his vessel won’t be enough to contain it. 

“Want you inside,” Castiel breathes into the shell of Dean’s ear. 

He says it because he wants the reaction--wants the full body shudder that quakes through Dean, wants to hear the low, punched out sound he makes, like Castiel’s just reached inside him and pulled out everything that matters. He wants Dean’s kiss to turn bruising, wants Dean’s fingers, clumsy with urgency, to work at his pants until they’re both shaking and bare. 

But most of all, what he wants is exactly what he said: he wants to feel Dean, above him, inside him, around him. He wants to pull Dean around him, so close that they can’t be separated. 

Once they’re both bare, Castiel wraps his arms and legs around Dean and spends a moment there. He can feel both his and Dean’s need growing in the insistent press of hard flesh into skin, but he wants this. “Until I met you, I didn’t think that I could love,” Castiel whispers. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling as one of his last defenses cracks apart. “I’d never done it before. And even after, I was scared that I didn’t know how. I was convinced I was doing it wrong. No matter how hard I tried, all I did was fail and hurt you. I tried to save you from any more trouble. Instead I broke the world. That’s what my love brought you.” 

Dean pauses, his chin digging into the soft flesh of Castiel’s stomach. His eyes are wide and glassy around the edges. “Cas, that’s not...Don’t even think that.” He reaches up and takes Castiel’s hands in his, squeezes until the small bones shift. If he were a human, it would hurt. 

“But it did,” Castiel says softly. No matter how warped his own perceptions of those times were, no matter how erroneous his assumptions of Dean’s care and devotion, the fact remains--He loved and he must have loved wrongly or at the very least poorly. If he hadn’t, then none of this would have come to pass. 

“Shut up.” Dean gathers him close, presses his lips to Castiel’s skin with the same kind of ferocity he shows in a fight. “Shut up, ok?” There’s a desperate tenderness to his touch--one that doesn’t speak of  _ hurry, quiet, just this once _ . This time when Dean kisses him, his body hovering over Castiel like a shield, all Castiel can taste is  _ love me, stay with me, don’t leave, please believe me.  _

“You’ve been in my head and I’ve been in yours and even if that weren’t the case, we’ve known each other too fucking long to lie anymore.” Dean sucks small bruises into Castiel’s skin between his words, working his way down his body. Every inch of Castiel strains and yearns for him, a weak whine leaving his lips as Dean kisses a line between his hips. 

“I want you. I need you. I  _ love _ you.” Dean pauses, locks his eyes with Castiel. Castiel, who can barely breathe, between Dean’s words, and his touch, and the need for more, more, more, even as he wants to stop and hold this moment in his hands until it disappears. “And nothing you say, nothing you  _ do  _ is going to stop that.” 

Doubts rise in Castiel, dark and ugly as poison. He wants to shake Dean, chastise him-- _ There’s no way you can know that, no way that you can promise that, how can you dare, when you know everything that I’m capable of-- _ But then, he remembers Dean, the scars from hell still fresh on his bleeding soul, standing across from him in a barn, fear and defiance in his eyes as Castiel, puppet of Heaven, told him  _ This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.  _

After all these years, Dean Winchester found something to put his faith in. Who is Castiel to take that from him? 

“Wonderful man.” Castiel traces the line of Dean’s forehead down to his cheeks. He runs his fingers over the cupid’s bow of his upper lip to the slick, plump flesh of his lower lip. Dean shivers, but he keeps his eyes focused on Castiel. “Beautiful man.” Castiel draws in a shuddering breath. His chest is cracking open. He feels too much. His pale flesh isn’t enough to contain it all. There’s love spilling out from every crack in his facade, so much love that he’s drowning. So much love that it could eclipse the stars. 

Even though the words are trite, Castiel says them anyway. “I love you,” he tells Dean, just so he can see the softness spread through Dean’s eyes. “You are worthy of love,” he adds, because he has been in Dean’s head. He’s felt Dean’s own doubts, the worry that he could never be enough. 

Dean is more than enough. He is everything. 

Dean’s mouth is everywhere on Castiel’s skin, leaving fire and storms in his wake. It’s all Castiel can do to hold on for the ride, his fingers carding through Dean’s sweat-damp hair. He’s drowning in sensation as Dean licks the crease between his thigh and groin, teasing little caresses that fall short of what he needs. 

“Stop teasing,” Castiel finally says, though the breathy note in his voice falls far short of the command that he wished the words to be. Dean knows it too, ducks his head down to hide his grin but Castiel can feel it against his skin. “Please,” Castiel says, no shame in asking, because Dean would never make him feel ashamed for asking for what he wants. “We’ve waited so long. Don’t make me wait longer.” 

“God, Cas,” Dean murmurs, just before he seals his mouth over the head of Castiel’s straining cock. The tip of his tongue teases at the slit before Dean slides his head down, taking as much of Castiel in his mouth as he can. 

Castiel cries out, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. He tries to keep his eyes on Dean, feels like he owes him that much, but it’s overwhelming. Dean’s tear-bright eyes gazing up at him as he grins around Castiel’s cock, watching the pulse of himself through Dean’s cheeks--Castiel closes his eyes and shudders as he fights the urge to thrust into Dean’s mouth. 

He’s so caught up in the feel of Dean’s mouth that he almost misses the slick finger circling around his entrance. “Still good?” Dean asks, pulling off. Dean’s voice is low and hoarse,  _ wrecked,  _ and Castiel loves to hear it. 

“I  _ said _ , don’t ask stupid questions,” Castiel snarls, a hint of wrath in his voice that disappears as Dean easily works a finger inside him. 

He’d forgotten the feel of it, how it felt to have Dean inside the most intimate parts of him. He remembers now, as Dean lavishes kisses onto the lower part of his stomach, as his fingers work Castiel open in quick motions. And Castiel...Castiel finally relaxes, finally accepts the words he told Dean years ago. 

_ Good things do happen.  _

He luxuriates in the burn of being stretched, in the adoration plain in Dean’s eyes and motions, the sparks that flash through his body as Dean just barely brushes his prostate. His body strains as pleasure races through his nerves. He tangles the sheets in his fingers, clinging to the last vestiges of his self-control. 

“Enough,” he finally says, amazed at the desperation in his voice. He looks down the length of his body at Dean. The vibrant green of Dean’s eyes is almost eclipsed by the dark of his pupils, and his lips are swollen red and slick. He looks wild. He looks beautiful. 

And he’s Castiel’s. 

“Need you,” Castiel says, beckoning Dean up to him. “It’s time, I’m ready, I just--” Castiel fumbles for the small bottle of lube, ends up pouring more than he needs in his palm, but none of that matters as he closes his fist around the thick length of Dean. 

Dean groans, his head dropping forward as he hips jerk forward into Castiel’s grip. Endearments fall from Castiel’s lips, words that he’s always felt but never dreamed that he would say. 

“Cas.” Dean shudders, buries his face into the crook of Castiel’s neck. “Cas, you gotta stop.” Dean’s teeth score over the vulnerable flesh of his throat, nipping just short of pain. Reluctantly, Castiel releases Dean. 

Dean meets his eyes, a small, embarrassed heat darting over his cheeks. “It’s...it’s too much,” Dean explains, like it’s something to be ashamed of. 

Castiel understands. It’s too much, as Dean urges his legs wider and settles between them. It’s too much as he lifts Castiel’s leg up onto his shoulder, placing a soft kiss to the knob of his ankle. It’s too much as Dean lines himself up and starts the long, slow slide inside of him. It takes Castiel’s breath away until he’s gasping. He’s undone, overthrown. Too much, too much--He’s exploding at the seams. Dean is working his way through him, in him, unmaking him atom by atom, until he’s nothing but longing and stardust. 

Dean comes to a stop, his hips neatly slotted against Castiel’s skin. They’re both panting, eyes blown wide, sweat trickling from Dean’s skin to fall onto Castiel’s. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean murmurs. He presses his forehead into Cas’ as small shivers wrack through his body. “You feel--”

“Move,” Castiel urges, his hands tracing down Dean’s shoulders and spine to the dip of his waist and the curve of his ass. Dean groans, his hips shifting, which in turn causes Castiel to release a low gasp. “Please Dean, I don’t...Don’t make me wait.” 

Dean chuckles, a soft, helpless noise. “Of course, darling,” he drawls, pressing open-mouthed kisses at Castiel’s throat and the bolt of his jaw as he starts to move. 

It’s ecstasy, it’s joy. It’s sheer bliss as Dean draws his hips back and then thrusts forward, slowly at first, but quickly picking up speed. Castiel doesn’t bother to hold in his moans of delight and Dean echoes him. 

“Never thought… Always wanted you,” Dean tells him, love spilling from his lips like wine. “Always, since the beginning. Loved you for so long, Cas, you don’t even know...oh, oh fuck.” Dean keens as Castiel drags his nails down his back and drops his head onto Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel is drowning--drowning in sensation, in Dean’s love, in the joy that rises up in his throat as he realizes--this is his life. He can have this. 

“Love you,” he tells Dean, the words torn from his lips as the pleasure rises to a breathtaking crescendo in his body. “Oh, Dean--”

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is a thin, reverent shred of its normal volume. “You’re so…” Dean props himself up on one hand to grope clumsily at Castiel’s cock. “Fuck,” he repeats, when he finds Castiel leaking and eager for his touch. “You gonna come for me?” he asks, unnecessarily as he starts to stroke him in quick, messy motions. 

There’s a thousand retorts that Castiel could make to that question, but none of them matter. His world narrows to the inferno of rapture blazing through him--Dean’s hand, stroking over his cock, Dean’s cock inside him, lighting him up from the inside out. He’s caught, he’s falling apart, he’s--

“Dean!” Castiel cries, fingers digging into the meat of Dean’s bicep as his back arches and he comes over his stomach in hot, messy waves. His vision blurs at the edges and his mouth falls open in soundless cries of pleasure, waves of bliss shaking through his body. 

Above him, he can hear Dean murmuring soft endearments, stroking through his hair and laying a ring of soft kisses to his chest and neck. Castiel reaches up for him, his limbs heavy and languid. Dean catches his hand and places a gentle, lingering kiss to his palm. 

“You too,” Castiel murmurs, still riding the aftershocks. “You…” He clenches as best he can and relishes in Dean’s short cry. “Finish.” 

“Hell, Cas,” Dean whispers. Castiel doesn’t even mind the discomfort twinging through his body as Dean gets his knees underneath him. He pulls Castiel’s legs up higher, hitching them around his waist as he presses close. “You’re perfect, you know that?” 

Castiel hums, reaching up to stroke over Dean’s forehead. He doesn’t believe it yet.

But if Dean keeps on saying it, with as much sincerity and warmth as he just did, maybe he will. 

It doesn’t take Dean long to finish, his rhythm falling apart as his hips roll into Castiel’s pliant body, chasing his own release. Castiel holds Dean as close as he can, whispering love into Dean’s ears, pressing it into his skin with kisses and caresses. 

Dean’s hips push into Castiel one last time, grinding against him as he gasps his release into Castiel’s skin. Castiel soothes him through the aftershocks, stroking down Dean’s skin as he holds him close. “Wonderful, beautiful man,” Castiel whispers. “The righteous man.” 

Dean shivers against him, but he doesn’t pull away. 

They lay on Dean’s bed long after the sweat has cooled, along with other, less pleasant fluids. Dean rolls off of him, but he stays pressed up close against Castiel’s side, like he couldn’t bear the thought of being pulled away. Not that Castiel wants him to leave. He thinks he could spend the rest of his existence like this, sheets tangled and pooled around his ankles, Dean’s arm thrown over his waist, head pillowed on Castiel’s shoulder. 

They don’t speak. There’s really no need to, not after everything that they’ve been through. Castiel has no need to seek reassurance, it’s there, in every touch of Dean’s, in every glance and look. Forever is a promise that Dean imparts with a brush of his fingers. 

Still, there is one last regret weighing on Castiel’s mind. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, when exhaustion is settling into even his body. 

At first he thinks that Dean is asleep. But then Dean stirs, brushing his nose against Castiel’s skin. “Why?” 

Castiel sighs. “We lost so much time.” Weighing on his mind are all the maybes, all the might haves, and all the almosts. Between them, he and Dean had so many missed opportunities, so many times when something as simple as a single word would have changed matters between them. “All this time…”

“Hey.” Dean props himself up on an elbow and looks down at Castiel. His hand starts to trace abstract designs on Castiel’s chest. “Don’t.” Dean’s hand comes to a stop, placed directly over Castiel’s heart. “We’re here. That’s all that matters.” 

Something in Castiel’s eyes must hint at his misgivings because Dean’s nails bite into his skin. Not enough to cause pain, not yet at least. More of a warning.

“We’re here.” Castiel’s gotten better at understanding the undercurrents of Dean’s voice, but there are layers upon layers of emotion that he can’t hope to untangle at the present moment. He doesn't feel any urgency to do so. He has time. 

Castiel pulls Dean into a kiss that he hopes says everything--his devotion, his love, and every other emotion crowding for purchase in his chest. Dean presses their foreheads against each other, nudging the tips of their noses together. “Idiot.” Somehow, Dean manages to convey more warmth in the insult than most do in declarations of love. “We need a shower.” For proof, he lowers his hand to the mess on Castiel’s stomach, making a revolted noise at the debris that flakes away. 

“Stop, that’s disgusting,” Castiel orders, batting Dean’s hand away. He rolls onto his back and stretches, delighting in the feel of smooth sheets against his skin. 

“You’re disgusting,” Dean decides, conveniently ignoring Castiel’s  _ Well, you’re not much better _ . “Come on, let’s shower.” 

Dean grins at him. He’s loose now, easy and comfortable in his skin in a way that Castiel’s never had a chance to see before. He leans over and presses a quick, careless kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth before he rolls out of the bed. Castiel watches Dean walk towards the door, admiring the long, bare line of his spine dipping into the curve of his buttocks. Dean moves with thoughtless grace and with the assumption that Castiel will follow, that Castiel will mold himself to the places that he’s left open. 

Castiel watches Dean and he sees the rest of his life unspool before his eyes. 

He sees Dean growing old, silver gathering at his temples and streaking through his hair. He sees Sam and Eileen settling down, Sam becoming a true Man of Letters and helping a new generation of hunters. He sees Jack, his bright, shining boy, traveling between worlds, keeping the peace, and becoming everything he was meant to be. 

He sees the last of his grace curling away in an elegant arc, leaving him human. While he misses it, Castiel lets it go without regret. Humanity settles into his bones. His joints creak in the morning and when he smiles, the lines remain. Castiel notes the changes and greets them happily. He sees the small house that, one day, he and Dean will buy. He listens to Dean complain about the cold floor in the morning, sees Dean mowing their lawn, losing his temper when Castiel leaves his clothes on the floor instead of putting them neatly in the hamper. 

Dozens of years unfold in front of him, each with their own trials and tribulations, but they’re  _ his  _ years, his and Dean’s. 

Castiel rolls out of the bed, the floor cold against his bare feet, as he wraps a spare robe around his body and follows Dean to the showers. 

Dozens of years, and he can’t wait to get started. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

**_postscript_ **

  
  


“Cas? Cas, baby?” 

Cas groans, pain shooting through his temples to rocket through every one of his nerves. He keeps his eyes shut for the moment. The darkness is soothing, not to mention that the way that the light lances through his eyelids is vaguely threatening. However, he doesn’t need to open his eyes to recognize the voice calling his name. It’s rare for Dean to sound so openly anxious, and to hear all of that worry directed at him…

For Dean, Cas can open his eyes a fraction, though he hisses at the sharp stab of light which slices through his skull. His eyes take a long moment to adjust as his vision fizzes and blurs around the edge. After a few seconds, Dean’s worried features come into view. 

“Hey,” Dean breathes. He keeps his voice steady but he’s betrayed by how tightly he grips at Cas’ shoulder. 

“Hi.” Cas winces as he tries to push himself into a more comfortable position. He fails at hiding his discomfort and Dean’s hand grips tighter, which he didn’t think was possible. He wants to lift up his hand to shield his eyes from the light, but his limbs feel like they weigh about a thousand pounds a piece. He settles for flopping his hand uselessly at Dean’s thigh. “You look upset.” 

His words do nothing to soothe his husband. In fact, they have the opposite effect. Dean’s forehead wrinkles in open concern. “Babe, do you remember what happened?” 

Cas thinks back. He remembers a claustrophobic bunker, remembers a family that was his and wasn’t his, remembers some of the worst pain he’d ever felt. Remembers the pain and the horror and the fear. Remembers how Dean’s face looks when it’s twisted ugly in anger. 

“Not really,” Cas answers. The lie sits a little too easily on his tongue, but he doesn’t regret it. 

“Shit,” Dean breathes. “Sweetheart, I came home with Jack and you were on the floor. I had to call Claire to come get him. The poor kid wouldn’t stop crying.” Dean winces. Obviously, he’d meant to keep that to himself, guessing correctly that it would send a sharp twist of guilt through Cas. He quickly changes topics. “Babe, I really think that we should go to the hospital. You’re pretty out of it--”

“The dinner.” Cas ignores Dean as the memory surfaces. How proud he’d been, to be making dinner for Claire and Kaia, how badly he’d wanted everything to be perfect. “Is it--” 

“You didn’t quite set the house on fire, but yeah, I’d say that we’re ordering pizza tonight.” Dean manages a wry little grin, in spite of his concern. “Shame. From the looks of it, before it started burning to a crisp, it was going to be just about edible.” 

“Ass,” Castiel mutters. The longer that he’s conscious, the better he feels and the sharper his world becomes. He blinks several times in an attempt to will his headache to recede. 

“Come on,” Dean urges. His grip gentles and becomes supportive as he slides his hands down to Cas’ elbow. “I really think that we should get to the hospital.” 

“I don’t need a hospital.” To prove it, Cas forces himself upright. He’s relieved when the world only swirls a little bit. Dean opens his mouth to argue but Cas beats him to the punch. “Of the two of us, which one has years of medical training?” 

“I hate when you pull that card,” Dean grumbles, but some of the anxiety fades from his eyes. He still watches Cas carefully and his hands hover around Cas’ body, ready to catch him if he keels over. “Are you sure?” 

“I promise,” Cas says. He even means it. “If I start feeling woozy or nauseous, you’ll be the first to know.” 

“Ok,” Dean says, relenting. His hand cups Cas’ cheek to slide through his hair. A thumb strokes against the soft skin of his temple and Cas tilts into the touch, brushing his lips against Dean’s wrist. His...whatever it was--dream, hallucination--rises, taunting him with the vision of a Dean who was nothing like this soft, wonderful man kneeling in front of him. He’d been so scared that he was never going to make it back to him. 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Cas murmurs. His body still doesn’t want to obey him, but he manages to reach up and wrap his fingers around Dean’s wrist. “Or the kids. I never want to leave any of you.” 

“Well, that works for me.” Thankfully, the worry has faded from Dean’s face, though a small wrinkle of confusion knits between his eyebrows. “We don’t want you to go either.” 

Cas smiles and pulls Dean close to him. He brushes his lips across Dean’s, relearning the taste and feel of him. His heart glows, a light so bright that Castiel can barely breathe around it. 

He’s home. He’s with his husband in the house that they built. His children are close by. His life, everything that he ever wanted, is right at his fingertips. 

“You sure you’re alright?” Dean asks when they part. 

“I’m fine,” Cas answers, leaning forward to tuck his head into the crook of Dean’s shoulder so he can breathe in the scent of him. 

“Everything is perfect.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we come to the end! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Again, please give all your love to [skeletonsinzeeclost](https://skeletonsinzeeclost.tumblr.com/). Amazing artist, amazing person. I'm indebted and I'm so glad I got to be her partner. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr, at [dothwrites](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). You can yell at me about this fic, any of my other stuff, or basically anything at all. I'm mostly nice and always weird. 
> 
> Till next time. Much love. <3 doth


End file.
